Bright Particular Star
by Nova802
Summary: Somehow Rachel Berry turned out to be his pole star, the thing that gives him direction and when Noah Puckerman really needs someone, it's his truest instinct to go to her. Rated "M" for later chapters.
1. Too Late

**A/N: Puckleberry of course. The title is from Shakespeare's "All's Well That End's Well." **

**I hope you enjoy, and I'd love to know what you think!**

* * *

It's late and the party is starting to wind down by the time Puck slips out the kitchen door onto the back porch and sinks into a chair, resting his feet up on the rail. The porch light is off, but the moon is full and he doesn't need much light anyway, just wants to get away from everyone and crack open a beer. The noise from the party is muffled out here. He can still hear the thump of the music, but not the words and he can tell that one of the girls is singing (hell, most of the gleeks are still there, so by definition, someone is _always_ singing) but he can't tell who it is. He tilts his head, listens hard for a second. It's not Berry, anyway, but beyond that, no idea.

He could go back in, find Mike or Matt to hang with, or Santana's probably fucking someone over in beer pong in the basement, or even he could even shoot the shit with Artie, dude's a fucking funny drunk. But this is kind of good too. Just out here chilling, letting go of the craziness of the day, first walking at graduation (and face it, a tiny part of him couldn't believe that Figgins had actually handed over the diploma,) and the performance they had staged for all the graduates, and then his mom hugging him tight and for once, her tears were the happy kind.

So he's celebrating. He's getting the hell out of Lima, even out of Ohio, University of Maryland in the fall, and not a fucking minute too soon.

He's ready to be somewhere else.

When Berry crosses his line of vision, she's in the backyard twirling on the grass. It kind of makes her her dress stand out and he'd totally be up for sitting back and trying for a look at her panties, but then she stumbles a little bit and he tenses and bites out a quiet curse.

She's drunk or on her way there judging by the look of her and by the way she's been throwing back that fruity shit Tina's been mixing up all night. Whatever. Tina can hold her liquor. Berry? Who knows? He's never seen her loaded or even close, she's a one glass of wine with dinner girl or a hold a beer to have something to do with her hands girl.

He crushes the beer can and stows it under the chair for Santana's mother to find tomorrow (he's kind of a dick that way) and it's not a great idea, but he's not going to let her do a header into a flowerbed or anything. Fucking Hudson. He's like six inches from her elbow at all times, has been for the last two years, so where the fuck is he now, when he should be making sure she doesn't kill herself?

He digs his hands into his pockets as he crosses the lawn and she turns and smiles, no she _beams,_ when she sees him.

"Hello Noah! It's lovely out, isn't it? Have you seen the stars?"

Totally unsurprising. She's a happy drunk.

"What are you doing out here, Berry?" He's aware that he sounds a little unfriendly, but he figures it's better than the alternatives.

"Looking for my shoes," she says, wiggling her toes in the grass, "Finn's taking me out to the reservoir and I know it may seem silly looking for shoes when the entire purpose of the trip is to swim, but I _love_ those shoes. They match my dress!"

_Swim?_ Is she going to the same reservoir that he goes to? 'Cause that's pretty low on his list of activities. Unless...

"Hudson taking you skinny-dipping?"

"Noah!" The tone is scandalized, but then she ruins it by giggling and looking mischievously up at him through her lashes. "I brought a swimsuit!"

He's seen her idea of a swimsuit once or twice. (Probably would have lost his shit too, if years of watching the skirts hadn't toughened him up.)

Anyway, she's fine, a little tipsy, but not slurring her words. He can leave, go back to his beer or his celebrating or whatever. Instead, for some reason, he moves closer, following her as she makes a beeline to the old swing set in the back corner of the garden.

She takes a seat on the swing and it almost makes him smile because she's kind of tiny and between that and the baby doll sundress she's wearing, she'd look like a kid if you didn't happen to notice the curves. Of course, that train of thought makes it a given that he's now staring at her boobs, but so what. She's hot. He _notices_, all right? But probably luckily, she's oblivious, just gives herself a push, bare feet skimming the grass and he watches her, leaning against the support in case she falls or something.

He should go. He's not nearly drunk enough for this shit. And he's got an early start tomorrow.

But then she smiles up at him and holds out her hand and says, "Come and swing with me."

He doesn't know why he's suddenly thinking about '_Run Joey Run_,' except maybe that's the last time she'd asked him to do something that probably wasn't going to turn out well. And yeah, he'd done it then too, so it probably shouldn't have been a surprise that he's gingerly seating himself on the swing next to hers.

"I can't believe it's_ all_ over! And the funny thing is, now that it is over, I'm going to miss _everyone_, even horrible Kurt! I want you to know Noah, that even when I take NYU by storm before inevitably becoming the internationally acclaimed star that all my talent and hard work and drive deserves, I'll remain a true friend. In fact, I'll always be there for all of you!" And then she looks a little guilty. "Except for Quinn," she stage-whispers it to him like it's some kind of secret. "She hates me. Actually, she's kind of a _bitch_, Noah."

No shit. He's been aware of that for years, since junior high, and still he's gotten stung by it again and again, most recently and spectacularly when they had crashed and burned during (_during!)_ Regionals, junior year.

Whatever. He's a slow learner.

_And since then? Times it by a million._

He has to force his eyes away from exhibit B: the girl next to him, her hair down, the hem of her dress riding up, leading to an awesome expanse of thigh and who knows, probably _'Finn Hudson's girl'_ tattooed on her ass.

Still, he's got to laugh because she's fooling herself, she really is. Always going to be there? It's the fucking work of a moment to leave someone. Holding on, that's the hard part.

"You'll shake the dust of this town off your heels so fast, our heads are going to spin. Not like they aren't already."

"No!" she protests, pouting up at him.

"Yes, Berry," he says lightly. "But shit, it's not so bad is it? Thinking of the rest of us losers stuck here, bragging that we used to know you?"

"You're not stuck here Noah. And you're certainly no loser." she says, her brow wrinkling in a frown.

He shrugs. "If I'm out, it's because you helped me."

"I just gave you the application form, you did all the work."

He rolls his eyes at her. "Yeah and you found that crazy scholarship, and got Figgins to call the admissions office and got Artie to tutor me in fucking pre-calc, so I'd have the math credits."

"You aren't supposed to know about that!" she says and suddenly she's looking down at her hands in her lap, embarrassed, which isn't what he wanted at all.

"Why not?" he asks, but he's pretty sure he knows the answer. Finn would freak the fuck out if he found out.

Here's the thing. He's rebuilt some kind of friendship with Hudson, but it's not like it was before he and Quinn busted it to hell like a pair of spoiled kids playing with a shiny new toy. This friendship is based on playing things (sports, video games), or sometimes petty crime (vandalism and a little pot, hardly counts). Outside of that, they don't do crap together. Especially not where Rachel is concerned. Dude is like a dog with a bone. Puck doesn't really blame him. History and shit.

So Rachel helping him out? _So_ not okay with her boyfriend and he thinks that she must be aware of that. Truth is though, she's not stupid, not even close, but he's never been sure exactly what she's aware of with all that. (It doesn't keep him up night. Much.)

She doesn't have a real answer for him, or maybe she just wants to change the subject. "I was glad to be able to help, but really, it was nothing."

And this is absolutely something he knows about her. She's always helping people, even when there's shit-all in it for her. So, yeah, she probably considers it nothing, or just some super-secret volunteer work or something. Maybe she's collecting merit badges. He refuses to be stupid enough to mind.

She sighs, leans back in the swing, pushing herself gently. "So tell me Noah, what are your plans for the summer? Are you continuing with your pool cleaning business?"

He glances at her sharply, trying to figure out if she's just trying to get a jab in, but no, she just honestly wants to know.

"Nope. I've got a job in Michigan, doing roofing for some construction company my mom's cousin works at. Can't say I'm looking forward to fourteen hour days on top of a ladder, but the money's good." He smiles at her, one of those genuine smiles that she seems to be able to pull from him from time to time. "I gotta to cover the housing money somehow. I'm headed out tomorrow at 6:00. Shit's packed and everything."

"Why don't I know about this? Does Finn know?" she demands, staring at him.

"No one does. It just kinda came up." (Three months ago.) He shrugs. "Besides, goodbyes suck."

"Finn is going to be so upset!"

Is she kidding? He'd bet a benjamin and whatever's left of the chronic lady in the glove compartment that Finn is going to be thrilled to see the back of him.

"I'll call him next week." Or Mike, or Matt. It'll get around. Eventually.

She looks...he can't figure it out, she looks kind of pissed, or sad maybe and he really shouldn't think about that, the way she's still just looking at him.

Things stretch out.

They both jump a little when they hear Finn's voice calling out her name from somewhere.

"That's Finn," she says unnecessarily, a little breathlessly. "You should...you really ought to come say goodbye to him."

Finn calls again, and he's getting that panicky note that he gets, which irritates the shit out of Puck, because god, she's never done anything but be right there by his side. He should know.

He stands up abruptly. "Nah. I've gotta go. Early start, remember? Besides Berry, I told you. Same thing, right?" he says and it's a little mean, because it's a dead cert that he is NEVER a topic of conversation between the two of them.

"You did tell me. I guess that means we finally must be friends." She rises, smoothing her dress down and then looks at him uncertainly. "Well then, this is goodbye for now, Noah."

She reaches up to kiss his cheek and he doesn't dare move but he can feel the muscle in his jaw clenching and her hand on his wrist burns him. And he fucking hopes she leaves quick. (Only he doesn't really want her to leave at all.)

She pulls away staring at him, and then for a second that look in her eyes, it's not so innocent, like maybe she's figuring something out and he kind of hates himself for that, because what the hell's the point now?

Finn calls again and he's getting closer and she's running towards the house, throwing a last glance at at him over her shoulder and then she's gone.

"We aren't friends Rachel," he says to no one at all, the taste of her name unexpected and sweet on his lips.


	2. Hey Stranger

**A/N 1: I never know how much to reveal in the author's notes, but chapter one was in the nature of a prologue. Main story picks up here, 2 1/2 years later. **

**A/N 2: Thank you so much for all the alerts and favorites and reviews! I love hearing what you think.**

* * *

Snowflakes are drifting down, tiny pin-pricks of white, highlighted against the dark sky by the streetlights and Rachel stops short and blinks as one settles on her eyelashes, and then smiles. In her head, she knows that soon, maybe even later this week since tonight's forecast doesn't call for more than a dusting, this will be a wet, gloppy mess, snarling traffic and making the sidewalks slippery, but right now all she sees is the beauty of the first snowfall of the season in New York City.

And then someone exiting the subway behind her bumps into her and not-so-politely tells her to move her ass. Upon reflection it's just possible that the 14th Street subway station is not the best place to appreciate the wonders of nature, so she'll let that slide, merely raising a haughty eyebrow before turning down the street towards her dorm. But at the same time, she's grinning on the inside, because this is _New York_, brash and expressive and exciting and she _loves_ it, and the thrill of being here still hasn't worn off in the least.

She weaves deftly through through the crowds, wrapping her coat a little more tightly around herself-it was her final studio day of the semester and she's still in her warm-up clothes-and at the same time, trying to pull her student ID out of her bag. Irritatingly, it's slipped to the bottom, and she's digging through several layers of books, a spare leotard, a water bottle and no fewer than three complete scores (seriously, it may be time to deaccession) when she catches a glance of something out of the corner of her eye. Something important. Her fingers close on the errant ID but her brain is trying to push this to the forefront.

Not something, someone. She pauses, makes a half turn and then barely holds back a shriek when the someone pushes off the wall of her building and grabs her elbow.

"Whoa! Berry, it's me!"

For a second, she's putting it all together, the deep voice shaded with worry, the hazel eyes, the strong features and the mobile, curious mouth. Then: "Noah!" she half-gasps, staring up at him.

"Yeah. Shit, I'm sorry for scaring you. Just didn't want to miss you."

Noah Puckerman, on a New York City street. _Noah Puckerman_, a foot away from her, still holding her elbow.

She hasn't seen him since Santana's graduation party and from there, at least from her perspective, it was like he fell off the edge of the world. She would never have predicted on that evening that it would be possible for two and a half years to pass without seeing him. Maybe she should have. He spent one year of high school tormenting her, one week dating her and the rest more or less ignoring her. (Sometimes more, sometimes less).

So yes, she's shocked at his sudden reappearance. But mostly, she thinks, she's just absurdly happy to see him. So it feels natural to drop her bag then and there and wrap her arms around him, laying her head against his chest. After a time, his arms come around her as well, holding her tight.

After a while, she pulls back as far as she's able (he seems to be forgetting to let go) and lets loose with the most pressing of the dozen or so questions that fly into her head. "This is...it's wonderful to see you. How have you been? What in the world are you doing here in New York? Are you on winter break? Are you here to see the sights?"

His arms are still loosely wrapped around her waist and hers are resting on his biceps and suddenly answers are less important because she now that she's this close to him, she realizes he's shivering. And no wonder, he's wearing some ridiculous excuse for a winter coat-for goodness sake it's not even lined!

She scowls at him and takes one of his hands between her own and starts chafing it. "Noah, you're freezing. How long have you been out here?"

"A while. Couple hours," he shrugs.

"Well that's completely unacceptable. Prolonged exposure to the cold can weaken your immune system and I refuse to be responsible for you developing pneumonia. Therefore, I cannot in good conscience allow you to go anywhere until you've had an opportunity to warm up. And whatever your plans are in New York, I strongly suggest you find more appropriate winter gear."

For a minute she thinks that he's not going to say anything at all, as he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot and for the first time she notices the backpack slung over one shoulder. Finally he lets out a deep breath and speaks. "Berry, look, I've got shit for plans here in New York and whatever I'm doing here, it's sure as hell not to see the sights and I'm pretty sure that you're the only person I know in a hundred-mile radius."

And that's all he says.

Fifteen minutes later, he's sitting on her dorm room bed, fingering her yellow bed spread, while she fusses around the room, starting the kettle, hanging his damp jacket over a chair.

"You always liked yellow," he says at last and she nods, confused, while she flips through the sweaters in the bottom drawer of her dresser. She knows it's here somewhere...ahh. She grabs the over-sized MIT sweatshirt Dad left last time he and Daddy visited and hands it to him.

He looks down at the sweatshirt as if he's never seen one before and she's about _this_ close to putting it on him herself, when he finally pulls the sweatshirt over his head, the material muffling his "thanks." He continues, "Your room was yellow, I mean. And that dress you wore for the Mash-up, sophomore year. I used to wonder why you didn't wear it again."

"I've always been more of a winter," she says cheerfully, "and anyway, that dress was ruined. I woke up the next morning in my closet, sleeping in a puddle of melted sorbet."

He barks out a rusty-sounding laugh. "Wish I had been there."

She kind of does too. _Where did that come from?_ She turns away, grateful that the water is boiling.

"How did you get my address? Did...did Finn give it to you?" She stumbles over the words a little and she's annoyed with herself. She's past all that, _years_ past it, and for some reason she doesn't want him to be under the misapprehension that she isn't.

He snorts and the implication is clear. It was a stupid question and anyway, she's not sure Finn even has her address, although she did send Carole a holiday card when she was home over Thanksgiving break.

"Facebook. You posted a picture of yourself in front of the building sign, so..." he trails off.

(She'd forgotten they were 'friends.' He certainly never updates or posts anything himself. She would have noticed.)

"Here," she says, turning and placing a mug into his hands. "It's herbal tea. You don't have to drink it, but I thought that holding something warm would help." She smiles when he takes a sip and doesn't make too much of a face.

"Are you hungry?" she asks. "Let's see...I have cup noodles." She rummages around in the tiny refrigerator. "Or there's some organic yogurt here. It's soy, though, so perhaps not. Unfortunately, the peanut butter belongs to my roommate."

"No, I'm good," he says.

He's not, though. She's been sneaking looks at him this entire time and it's not just because he's taking up entirely too much space on her bed. It's that he's drawn in on himself, he's got dark smudges under his eyes and the set of his shoulders, the way he's holding himself, it's all wrong.

She has no idea what to do about that, so she sit next to him, folding her hands on her lap.

"I need a place to stay," he blurts out suddenly. "Just for two nights. I can stay with Chang when I get back to Ohio, but he won't be back from UCLA until the 14th, and Maryland has, like, this stupidly long break and closes down the dorms."

She looks at him in confusion. "Staying with Mike? Is your mother out of town?"

He closes his eyes briefly and runs a hand along the back of his neck. "It's...the whole thing is complicated right now. I just really need a place to stay."

She hesitates and he rushes on. "It's not some kind of lame pick-up attempt in case that's what you're wondering. I've got a sleeping bag in my pack."

"No, that's not it at all," she says quickly and he raises an eyebrow, a trace of the old, familiar smirk playing on his lips. She can feel herself flushing and adds, "Well, yes it is. But the main difficulty is Olivia, my roommate. She's somewhat high-strung and intense."

He looks at her blankly. "You have a roommate that _you_ describe as high-strung and intense? How has this room not, like, exploded?"

"I've mellowed," she says, totally seriously.

"That's cool," he nods. "Listen, I understand." He grabs his backpack and then takes two steps towards the door.

She flies up and grabs his hand. "Where do you think you're going?"

He shrugs, but he lets her keep hold of his hand. "I don't want to cause a problem."

"Nonsense. I'm merely considering my plan of attack." She tugs him a step back. Somewhat to her surprise, he yields, smiles tentatively at her and she can feel her whole face brightening in response.

"You know, it's shit like that, Berry, that makes me think you haven't mellowed all that much."

"But you're staying?" He might as well give in, because there is _no_ way she is letting him go anywhere. He's in a strange city. It's winter. It would be positively inhumane.

He's not entirely right, though. She may not have changed all that much, but at least now she understands that there are consequences to rushing in. (She learned that watching in horror as this boy lay sprawled out on the floor taking hit after hit.) There's something here she doesn't understand, but he needs help and he came to _her_. She's not going to ruin this.

"Yeah. I just...thanks."

The rest is not exactly easy, but certainly doable for someone of her abilities. She sends Noah off to the student lounge-there's usually some kind of sporting talk show on around this time and she's sure he'll enjoy that. When Olivia arrives she has a short but trenchant discussion with her, the highlights of which include the bi-weekly 3 AM phone calls to her boyfriend, currently an exchange student in Hong Kong, and the time her little sister visited for a week and vomited on Rachel's laptop after a party (it's been replaced since then, but still, eeeww!). She orders a pizza for Noah (he must be hungry, he was always hungry in high school) and on her way down to collect it, informs Rosa at the security desk that her friend will be staying for several nights.

Rosa winks. "Mmm! Very cute, honey."

Rachel finds herself entirely unable to argue the point.

When she goes to the lounge to find him, he's engaged in a vigorous but friendly debate over the merits of Pedroia versus Cano. (She's going to make the assumption that they aren't tenors and leave it at that.) A familiar face, her friend Marcus, detaches himself from the group and wraps a friendly arm around her. "High school friend?" he asks quizzically. She_ never_ talks about high school. She nods and smiles noncommittally. She's always had a difficult time defining their relationship.

They go back to her room and after a quick introduction to Olivia who is on her way to the library, he eats the pizza rapturously, moaning, "_so fucking good_," between inhaled slices. (It's distracting, but she kind of enjoys it.)

Eventually, (because she can't sit around and watch him eat all night) she tells him that she needs to prepare for an exam tomorrow. He should go watch a game. (Seriously, there is _always _a game, she has no idea how the sports fans in this building get anything done.)

"Pass." he says, "I fucking hate the Knicks. I can help you study if you want."

She grins. "It's for my History of Music course. How well versed are you in 19th century operetta?"

He scoffs. "Please, Berry. I know how you operate. Don't even try to tell me you don't have a fuckload of flashcards already made up. Shit, I never would have passed Chem junior year without those ones you made Finn."

She tilts her head towards him. "Finn had to repeat Chemistry as a senior."

"Duh. That's because he never used the flashcards."

That explains a lot.

They go through the flashcards twice and he even highlights her study guide, when she asks him nicely. He forces her to sing a few lines from each piece. ("Shit Berry, this is singing school. You _sure _they won't want to hear your pipes on that exam tomorrow? You wanna be prepared, _right_?") She laughs when he tries to make up a dirty limerick about Jacques Offenbach. ("No, seriously! It'll be a whaddya-callit? A mnemonic!") It's nice, having Noah around. More than nice.

They don't talk about Ohio, not even once.

And then it's past midnight. Olivia is back and glaring and she really does need her sleep to be at her best for her exams. She gets ready for bed in the bathroom and brushes her hair out for an extra-long time and inspects her NYU t-shirt and short in the mirror critically, but then she has to laugh at herself. He's seen her in everything from knee socks to a bikini to the first Gaga outfit. It's not like she has any secrets from him. Or at least not those kind of secrets.

He unrolls the sleeping bag on the floor next to her bed (it's not like there's a lot of available floor space anyway) and she lends him her extra pillow and it probably should be awkward, sleeping next to a boy she hasn't seen for such a long time, but it isn't. Unless you count the part where she's wondering what it would be like sleeping next to him, and Rachel firmly decides not to. (She's breathing, and in her experience that guarantees some level of attraction to Noah. Damn pheromones.)

The lights are out and she can tell by Olivia's steady breathing that she's asleep, but when she shifts slightly there's enough light to see that Noah's eyes are still open, staring up at the ceiling.

"Noah," she whispers and he turns towards her. "Noah, why are you here?" She doesn't know if she means '_why not at home in Ohio'_ or _'why here with me'_. Possibly both.

The silence stretches out between them and for a while she thinks he isn't going to say anything at all. Then gruffly: "My dad's back. It's a whole fucked up mess."

She reaches down and grabs his hand and squeezes awkwardly for a second and she thinks he squeezes back.

"Can we not talk about it, though?" he asks quietly.

"That's fine," she whispers back and truthfully, he's probably already given her enough to begin to understand, just from that one statement.

"Goodnight Berry."

"Goodnight Noah."

She falls asleep almost immediately.


	3. New York Minute

**A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing!**

* * *

He can't go to sleep right away, because he's in a strange room. Or, you know, because he's in Rachel Berry's room and she's asleep in her bed less than two feet away from him.

Seriously, he has no idea how he got here.

All right, fine, it was on a _bus_. (Stupid fucking alternator-no way he's paying full price for a new one when he can pick up a rebuilt one from Burt Hummel.)

But he's pretty sure when his ass was at the bus station this morning he didn't have this in mind. Sure, he had the address he'd googled for her in his wallet, has for months, but that's just a stupid _thing,_ he kind of likes knowing where she is in the world. He never meant to use it. And if a tiny voice in his head tells him he just didn't have the balls to use it, he just tells that voice to _shut the fuck up_.

All he knows is that he sure as hell isn't going to go home to watch that fucker try to buy forgiveness with some crappy diagnosis.

His options are pretty limited. College friends are scattered all over the place and besides, too much explaining. Chang will put up with him when he gets back, shit, he's pretty sure that over the years his ass has carved a permanent indent on Mike's couch, but until then? Rutherford? Four sisters. Enough said. Finn? Hasn't spoken to him since the fight that dickhead had pushed on him the weekend he left for college. It's been more than two years and he bets the fucker still wants to hit him again (and shit, he'd like to hit back). He's beginning to wonder how bad sleeping rough could be, even in December.

So there he is staring at the big Greyhound board with all the departure times and there's a bus leaving for New York City in five minutes. And he just buys a ticket and gets on it. Impulse control has always been kind of a problem for him.

All he knows is that he needs this. He needs two fucking days out of it, needs to close his eyes and not see his father; it's like looking in a damn mirror and he _hates _that. Doesn't want to think about his mother trying to pretend like the last decade never happened, or shit, even his sister, probably wondering where the hell he is.

And the thing with Rachel is, he's never been very good about thinking about anything _but_ her when he's around her.

He probably should have spent the entire trip worrying about what he's going to say to her, shit, if she's even still around or already left for Cabo or Europe or wherever the fuck she goes on break (since she certainly never spends it in Lima). But he doesn't question it, even if it is crazy, not even when he's freezing his ass off waiting for her.

Except then, when she walks by, he almost misses her. Which is stupid, right? He knows her face, even if it's a little thinner, a little more finely drawn. And she's still got that gorgeous hair, pulled up in a loose pony-tail with a few strands curling around her face. Still has that banging body, tiny and perfect, even mostly hidden under the coat. But she's walking with this amazing confidence, like the way he's seen her on stage and nowhere else. It's awesome, but it makes her a stranger for a moment, until she wraps her arms around him.

His head is spinning all night because it's ridiculously easy to fall back into that friendly banter thing they had going in bits and pieces throughout high school (and fuck, it's not like he wasn't checking out her ass then, either). And he can't say he's shocked that she's asking him questions. Can't say he's shocked that he gave her some kind of answer either, since she's always been able to do that-pulling this emotional crap out of him like she knows it's there.

He's such an idiot, lying awake thinking about a girl who, shit, he doesn't even know why, she's just always there, in the back of his mind. Which is where she should stay. Face it, if there's some bright and shining opposite to hit and quit, it's Rachel Berry. (And since when has he had anything else to offer?)

Fuck. He needs to get some sleep.

Only, now he's starting to wonder if it's better to be 250 miles away from Rachel and not touching her or two feet away and _still_ not touching her.

_Shut up_. For whatever reason, this is better.

* * *

She wakes him up the next morning leaning over him, with with a hand on his shoulder, and still mostly asleep, he nearly reaches out to pull her down on top of him. Which you know, is _his_ idea of a good morning, although probably not hers. (His dick is totally not helping him with his resolution to leave her alone.) By the time he's worked out where the hell he is and what he's doing here, she's already talking.

"Good morning, Noah. I'm sorry to rouse you, but I'm on my way to the gym..."

See? Working out? Totally not making his top ten list.

"...and I didn't want you to wake up and simply find me gone."

What does make the list? Well, just off the top of his head there's using his mouth and fingers and cock to make her come so hard she can't remember her own name.

"Thinking it through however, I could have just left you a note, and then I wouldn't have disturbed your sleep..."

And he'd be lying if he tried to pretend that he's never looked at her hot little mouth and thought blow-job.

"...especially since I know the floor can't be very comfortable."

Oh _shitfuckdamn_. Should _not_ be thinking about this right now.

"Tonight possibly we should switch things up."

Or _that_. Maybe he can shift a little bit so that it's slightly less obvious.

"And by that I mean I could sleep on the floor and you could take the bed."

Although, come on, he's not a miracle-worker. There's only so much he can do.

"Of course, we can discuss all this later, when you're a little more awake. I'll bring you back some coffee and something to eat from the dining hall. I've never smuggled anything out of there before. That should be a new experience! Olivia's already left for the day, so the room is yours. I've left you a clean towel in the bathroom if you want to take a shower."

She finally winds to a stop and is biting her lip, probably waiting for him to stop being such a prick and say something.

Something _not_ about fucking her in the shower, jackass.

"Uhhh, thanks."

But she's smiling like it's not the stupidest thing ever. "See you soon, Noah."

He takes an extra-long time in the shower that morning. (Water as hot as he can take it, one forearm bracing himself on the tile, breathing harshly, hand on his cock gripping then sliding, thumb flicking over the head, all the time wishing it was her hand, imagining the water on her skin, licking droplets from the hollow formed by her collarbone, and then he's panting out her name in a voice he doesn't even recognize.)

When she gets back they eat breakfast together, him at her desk while she's sitting cross-legged on her bed. She's brought him like the equivalent of a box of Cap'n Crunch and a huge-ass thermos of milk and thank fuck, coffee and she's eating toast and that soy yogurt shit and it's nice, it's comfortable to do that kind of thing with her (and yeah, a little weird, since he just defiled her shower). Then she pulls out a dog-eared guidebook and uses sticky notes to mark out a few places and he thinks it's kind of cool that instead of museums and theatres, she's marking off music stores and burger places and stuff.

Maybe he'll just walk around. Watch the people. Mostly he just wants to see what she loves about this place so much.

* * *

They meet up around 3:00 at her favorite coffee shop in Union Square. He's a little late because he spent too long talking to some guy playing guitar in the subway station, so she's already got her books spread out on a table way in the back. He slides into the chair opposite her and places a cup of tea in front of her.

"Guy at the counter said you drink this. How'd the exam go?"

"Very well, thank you! How was your day?" she says, flashing a grateful smile at him and closing her notebook.

He tells her about asking some cop for directions and getting the guy's life story along with it and spending a couple hours at this guitar store on 30th hanging out with the manager and basically trying out everything they had and getting a hot dog with the works from some street vendor and buying a necklace for his sister from this weird holiday tent thing in the square and then the insistent hum of the streets which that maybe isn't just because the of the subway rumbling beneath and when he finally stops she's almost laughing.

"You liked it," she says with certainty. "I can always tell. Dad and Daddy don't really. Three nights and a Broadway show and they're both dying to get back to Ohio. But you're like me."

That sounds all right.

"More exams?" he asks, fingering the spine of her textbooks. "_Adolescent Psychology_? _Using Music to Enhance Student Learning_? Where do these come into play, Miss Broadway?"

She makes a small face. "I'm actually a double major, Musical Theatre and Education. It's a lot of work and as it happens, I'm taking five classes instead of the usual four this semester, but that was the deal I made with my dads in order to come here."

He frowns. "I would have thought that they'd be all over you being here. They always seemed into you performing."

She hesitates and he can tell she's trying to be diplomatic or something (he can smell bullshit a mile away). "I think that what they found adorable in a child of eight, and an excellent extra-curricular for a girl of sixteen, they don't see as a viable career path for a woman of twenty."

"So they think teaching's a safer bet?" he asks doubtfully.

"I suppose they do. And I even spent last summer working as a music educator at a gifted and talented learning program run by the city. But the problem is..." she looks around guiltily and lowers her voice so that he had to lean forward to hear her, "the problem is that I _hate_ teaching."

He grins. "Berry, of course you do. Who fucking wouldn't?"

She glares at him. "Education in general is a noble profession and I believe that the arts can make a huge difference in the lives of children."

With effort, he manages to prevent himself from rolling his eyes. (Since he likes his balls the way they are.) "So what's the problem?"

"You may find it difficult to believe this, but honestly, I'm _terrible_ at it. I lack patience in general and the small ones always want to hug me and the larger ones remind me of Cheerios and last summer I found myself wondering how Sue Sylvester would have dealt with the situation on several occasions. And these children were musicians, Noah! They wanted to be there!"

"So don't teach," he says casually. Shit. Why is it so easy to solve her problems when he knows fuck-all about what to do with his?

"Obviously, I have no intention of inflicting myself on innocent students," she says somewhat acidly. "But I don't want to disappoint my fathers either. Is it too much to hope that they would support my decisions even if they don't approve of the choices I make?"

"Probably," he shrugs. "At least that's been my experience."

Her eyes flick up at him at that, but she continues evenly. "So your advice is what exactly? Get over it? Simply disregard their misgivings?"

"Advice? I don't give advice. But yeah. You know, bite the bullet and get the double major since it beats going 80k into debt and when you graduate, do what everyone else does when they're waiting for their big break. Wait tables. Or work retail. Or buy a bike and become one of those crazy-ass messengers. Whatever. It's just a matter of time, because don't even try to get me to think they don't love you here. You're Rachel _fucking _Berry, and you got a standing ovation at Nationals."

"Even though we lost," she grumbles and he looks at her unbelievingly, because sure, he doesn't give advice, but that was some good shit. When he looks closer though, the corners of her mouth are just starting to turn up. "We were pretty terrific though, weren't we?"

"_You _were terrific," he says seriously. "Now pull out the damn flashcards before I start charging for this."

The smile is back full-force.

He likes that and it would worry him that making Rachel Berry smile is rapidly becoming his favorite thing to do, but he's leaving tomorrow.

And then everything will just go back to the way it was.


	4. Dreams Are Free

**A/N: Thanks to all of you wonderful readers and reviewers!**

* * *

"So are you ready, Noah?" she asks, finishing her last sip of tea and carefully stowing the last of her study materials back in her bag.

"For what?" he asks, sounding half amused and half wary.

She smiles up at him. "Let's just get on the subway and see where it takes us. New York is beautiful at night."

It brings them to Times Square where they wander around for a while, enjoying the display of lights, and she laughs when he details how everything around them was completely destroyed either by a giant wave or alien robots or possibly both in some movie. And then naturally she has to drag him past several of the theatres, providing him with a synopsis of the plot, pacing and vocal direction of all the shows.

Next, they go to Rockefeller Plaza to check out the giant Christmas tree, even though he teases her about being a bad Jew. She eyes him consideringly when they skirt the skating rink and he grins and says, "Not a chance. Not unless you want to give me a big stick and let me hit people."

She pauses and her stomach swoops unpleasantly because she barely catches herself before she says '_maybe next time'._ That would presume that there's going to be another time. Instead she offers, "Unfortunately, I left my hockey skates at home," and he snorts.

They're both hungry so she brings him to one of her favorite places, a tiny Greek restaurant squeezed in between two buildings. She loves their stuffed grape leaves and she knows he'll be in favor of any place that serves meat on a stick. They sit at a back table and as their waiter appears to be studying for exams in between refilling their waters, he seems content to leave them alone and she finally gets him talking about himself. Not about home, or whatever is going on with his father-he doesn't go there, and she doesn't push. Instead he talks about school and she absolutely thrilled (though not at all surprised) to hear that he's doing well.

What does surprise her is the curriculum he's following, mostly business courses, although she can't say exactly what she expected. Music maybe, but he laughs when she discloses that and tells her that she's got a one-track mind. (He could be right but she still thinks he's talented enough.)

He grins at her. "After two fucking years of _Sheets 'n Things_, I figured out that if I'm going to be working for a prick, it might as well be me."

She smiles back, but he definitely has a point. He's not the type to suffer fools gladly.

"So, uh, I've kept up with that construction company in Michigan and the guy who owns it, he kinda got to like me and he's let me run a few projects. What he does, he's not an expert in everything, but he's the one who holds it all together and I figure I could do something like that so I'm learning about business plans, and enough accounting to put in bids and do payroll taxes. Start small obviously, repairs, rehab jobs, shit like that, but you know."

He's hesitant as he shares this last part and she wonders who else he's told, if he has anyone else to talk about this with. She's guessing not. If he had anyone else, he probably wouldn't be here.

"I can see you making a success of that, Noah."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely. Will you move to Michigan after graduation?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. People build shit all over. Could go anywhere."

She nods thoughtfully before turning in her seat, rousing the waiter from his studies and signalling for the check.

Walking back to the subway she doesn't take his arm in hers. She thinks about it, as he pushes out the door of the restaurant and angles his body towards hers, a jerk of his chin indicating that she should go through. Yesterday she would have without even thinking about it, she certainly had hugged him readily enough. But now, it's a day later and it's _still_ popping into her head at odd times, the actual sensation of his body pressed against hers, even for that brief moment.

Something's shifting between the two of them and it's unsettling.

He looks down at her as they start walking and digs his hands into his pockets. Her shoulder brushes his arm while they wait at the intersection.

It might just be her. She's not going to try to reduce this all to her own sexual urges, but, truth be told, it's been a while since she was with someone.

Following the disaster that was her break-up with Finn she went out occasionally freshman year. Maybe it's college, or maybe it's New York, or maybe it's her more relaxed outlook on life, but she found herself enjoying the sensation of dating casually for the first time ever. She'd been with Finn for more than two years and while things with Jesse had been brief, it had been anything but relaxed. Noah, she chooses not to categorize at all.

Her second year of college, she had two boyfriends, one short-lived, the other somewhat serious. So clearly, she's expanded her sexual horizons beyond Finn. (Boyfriend #1's staying power had been a particularly nice surprise and probably extended their relationship by a month or so.) Since then, although she's had offers, she hasn't met anyone she really responds to.

A crowd of people stream with them out of the subway, almost separating them, and he drops a step behind, ghosting his hand along the small of her back. She shouldn't be able to feel it through her coat.

So, again, it's been a while, but not so long that she doesn't recognize the occasional hitch in her breathing or the curling ache in her stomach and lower when he's around.

Obviously, she needs to redefine her boundaries because it's becoming way too easy for her to think of him (fantasize, really) in ways that she's _sure_ are not appropriate. Like that gorgeous mouth teasing a wet trail down her body, strong hands gripping her hips, then tracing lines along her thighs _and_ _god_...it's all becoming _very_ distracting.

And if that was all it was, she'd be tempted, _very_ tempted, to ask if he had any interest in exploring some of those ideas with her. After all, what could it hurt? It's not as if there's any question that he would be magnificent. She's heard too many testimonials to his prowess to doubt that. (Mostly from Santana, and while her ethics might be in doubt, her taste is not.) And now that she has some idea of what she was missing in high school, she's even more intrigued. Plus, he'll be gone before the embarrassment factor has a chance to kick in.

But the thing that complicates this little non-plan is the fact that she likes Noah. She always has, or at least she has since the slushies ceased. Determinedly not in any romantic sense. That would be foolish given his feelings for her which over the years of their acquaintance seemed to have morphed largely into friendly indifference. (If one ignores those heated-and confusing-glances on graduation night, which she usually manages to do.) She likes his sense of humor, his straightforwardness, and the way he tries to protect the people he cares for. She admires his talent and the drive and ambition that got him out of Lima. And he can be very sweet, when he lets himself be.

They talk as they walk along the sidewalk towards her dorm, the shop windows lit up for the holidays. And then everything is quieter, both the noises from the street and the two of them, as they cut through the park and she finds herself sneaking glances at him.

She releases an internal sigh and maybe she's just chickening out, but she's not going to make a move, as much as she really wants to. (Even if there's something in the way that he's sneaking glances right back at her that tells her that he might not refuse her.)

Tonight has seemed a lot more like a date (and really, really excellent one to boot) than she's comfortable with. It would be easy to get used to this, to get attached, and her brain is screaming _'not a good idea'_ at her.

She's can do this. She can keep it friendly. She just needs a plan. She swipes her ID to open the her door and all she comes up with is_ be cool Rachel. Be nice._ She giggles, remembering the provenance of that particular saying and he looks down at her, raising one eyebrow questioningly.

"Nothing," she smiles. "How about we make some popcorn and watch a movie on my laptop?"

* * *

She wakes up in the middle of the night to the unaccustomed weight of an arm around her shoulders and her head pillowed comfortably on someone's chest. To be more specific, Noah's lovely arms and his chiseled, insanely attractive chest.

She's relatively sure she's had dreams that started like this. Sadly, they're both fully dressed-at least as much as pajamas count as fully dressed_. Wait. Hold on. Sadly? _She must still be half asleep.

She blinks and spots the empty popcorn bowl and her laptop on her desk and things become clearer. Movie. She must have fallen asleep. She lifts her head carefully to look up at him, but his face is still and his breath steady and even. She's not even going to pretend that she's going to wake him up and ask him to sleep on the floor. Instead she shifts slightly, balancing on one arm and leaning over him to pull a blanket from the bottom of the bed over the two of them and then sinks into his side again.

Just before she drifts off again, she feels his arm tighten around her, but she's asleep before she can think about it.

* * *

When she wakes up for the second time, possibly because of the bright sunlight pouring in through the windows, possibly because of the sound of a door opening, she notices three things.

Firstly, they've shifted sometime during the night. Now they're spooned together and he's completely curled around her. She can feel herself pressed against him from back to backside, her head cradled on one of his arms, and their legs are tangled together and he's _so_ warm, which is just as well, because somehow the blanket has been kicked off.

Secondly, her tee shirt is pushed up. Moreover, her tee shirt is pushed up because _his hand_ is on _her breast._ He's cupping her and when she jerks in surprise, he mumbles something sleepily, his face buried in her hair and then his thumb brushes once, then twice, over her nipple and she can barely prevent herself from arching into him as it hardens. And speaking of _that_, what exactly is that against her bottom? Oh. _Oh!_

Thirdly. Ah, yes. Back to the noise in the room. Her roommate is standing in the middle of the room in her bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her wet hair and a look of shock on her face and Rachel can only wait for it.

_"Rachel! What in the world?"_ Hmm. That shriek wouldn't be out of place at the Met.

He pulls her in closer, almost protectively and she twists back in his grasp just enough to look at him (somehow, it's not enough to dislodge his hand). His eyes are just fluttering open and then she's staring directly at him for a lingering moment. She wonders stupidly why eyelashes like that are always wasted on boys until that thought is chased away by the shock of seeing a dull flush spread across his face and down his neck. His eyes flash up to her roommate and back to her and he pulls his hand away as if her skin was burning him and then snaps it back and yanks her shirt back down. Then he rolls onto his back and groans.

She'd like to do that too, but unfortunately there's her pissed off roommate to deal with.

Five minutes later the two of them are standing in the hallway _discussing_ the matter.

"Aren't there ties on doors or something for situations like this?" Olivia hisses. "I was in the shower! Give me twenty minutes to get out of here and then you and your boyfriend can have at it all morning!"

"Olivia, we are just friends!" Given the position they were found in this morning, it sounds weak, even to her ears.

"Rachel, I have male friends. We do not share beds. They do not feel me up. Nor do they spend the better part of 24 hours looking like they want to devour me whole!"

Rachel is sputtering, struggling to find a come-back when the door opens and Noah walks out with his coat on and his backpack over one shoulder.

Olivia smiles sourly and slips back into the room.

"Where are you going?" she asks him in a small voice.

"Port Authority," he says, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. "There's a bus in a couple of hours. You've got to get going anyway. Your next exam is in what? Like an hour?"

A worried crease forms between her brows. "Less than that now. I can...would you like me to walk you to the elevator?"

He nods down at his feet. "Yeah."

He hits the down button and they're standing in awkward silence while she pulls on the hem of her shirt and he leans one shoulder against the wall

Well this is ridiculous. They are both unquestionably adults and can get through the next two minutes without embarrassment. As long as they both never _ever_ speak of this again.

"About what happened. I'm sorry. I mean I know you're not...look, I was like 95 percent asleep."

There's that plan shot to hell.

"No. I'm sure...it's fine...just a natural reaction. An involuntary response, like when the doctor hits your knee with the hammer. I understand." She needs to stop talking because she's starting to squeak and she refuses to sound hysterical. Even if she is a little.

He closes his eyes and lets his head drop back on the wall so hard that she can hear a thunk. "Berry, you don't understand anything," he says quietly and before she has time to take offense, he takes two quick strides to her and crashes his mouth down on hers. Her arms go up automatically to curve around his neck-and it must be automatic, because there's certainly no room in her head for conscious thought, not when every bit of her is consumed with the feeling of his lips on hers. One of his hands tangles in her hair, cradling the back of her head, angling her towards him as his tongue darts along her bottom lip. The other hand slides under her shirt to the small of her back, pressing her fully against him when she opens her mouth for him. Dimly, she hears the elevator come and go, but it doesn't matter, all that matters is the burn of hands and mouths and bodies.

When he finally releases her, her breath is sharp and she has to cling to his forearms for a moment to regain her balance. He's breathing hard too, his lips on her temple, his fingers digging into her hips.

"Understand now?" he asks shortly, taking a step back from her.

No. Not really. Except it's seeming quite likely that it might not have taken all that much to seduce him last night. But he's not waiting for a response, instead grabbing his pack and moving towards the door to the stairwell.

"Noah!" she calls and his hand freezes on the door handle as he looks back towards her. "You've got my contact information now. So you can get in touch if you need anything or even just someone to talk to."

God, now she sounds desperate. He's going to laugh.

Only he doesn't, his face is serious, no trace of a smirk hovering around his mouth. "Yeah. All right. Same here."

And then he's gone.


	5. What You Should Know

He's halfway to Columbus before he lets himself think about it.

And then what he thinks is _well, that was stupid_. It's not like he's never thought about getting to second base with Berry. (Five fucking years, that's how long he's been thinking about it.) It's just that he always thought he'd be fully awake when it finally happened.

And he really should have known. Sure, her tiny little ass was pressed up right against his cock and he got a perfect handful of tit, exactly like in a few of his more x-rated dreams, but Dream Rachel doesn't smell as good as Real Rachel and Dream Rachel doesn't feel as good in his arms as Real Rachel does. Admittedly Dream Rachel doesn't scream like a steam whistle when she sees him (okay yeah, that was the roommate...whatever) and she certainly doesn't look shocked as hell to have him lying next to her in the morning. Or maybe that's down to the fact that he had her flashing the roommate. And then that kiss? Fuck, he doesn't know.

He leans back in the uncomfortable seat and jams one hand into his backpack, pulling out a little square of folded tissue paper. Unwrapping it carefully, he runs his finger along the length of the bracelet, tracing the glass beads, interspersed with tiny gold stars. Her 21st birthday is next week, not that he's ever gotten her anything before (although it might have been worth it, just to see Hudson's face). But when he saw this at that freaky little street stall where he got his sister's necklace, he bought it before he could think twice about it, even if it means he'll be eating Ramen noodles for a couple of weeks before next semester's financial aid comes through.

He meant to give it to her, just kind of casually, like as a thank you, before he left. But right now all he's seeing is the exact expression on her face when he's kissed her, her wide eyes looking up at him all soft and open and serious at the same time. And he wonders is what would have happened if he'd followed his instincts and grabbed right on to her and refused to leave. So excuse the fuck out of him, because nothing seems very casual right now.

He wraps the bracelet back in tissue paper and slips it back into his backpack.

* * *

All things considered, break is okay. He and Mike pick up right where they left off, which is to say they spend their time drinking and playing X-box in the basement throughout most of it. When Matt gets home from Chicago it's basically like high school, only with no Finn, and also buying beer is a shitload easier when you don't have to wait around in front of 7-11 hoping someone will feel sorry for you.

Neither of them give him any hassle, although he thinks for a minute that maybe Rutherford's going to break the habit of a lifetime and actually say something when he lets it slip in the middle of a shoot-out that he was actually in New York. (And also that he might have seen Rachel.) Whatever. It was _True Crime: NYC_ and he was recognizing shit.

He goes to see his mother during her lunch break one afternoon. They manage to keep it pretty civil; she tells him what her douchetastic manager is up to now and how his sister is doing in school. He agrees to pick up Sarah after gymnastics on Saturday and take her holiday shopping (no hardship, he was going to anyway). He holds off asking her why the hell she's letting his asshole father take advantage of her, and beyond telling him that he needs to _'let go of his anger'_ (fucking _hilarious_ coming from her) she manages to refrain from calling him a heartless bastard.

But it's a relief to head back east and not to have to look over his shoulder everywhere he goes.

* * *

He thinks about Rachel. Not a lot. Just whenever he's hovering between sleep and wakefulness.

He knows he probably won't be talking to her for a while-hell, they went _years_ without talking last time. But then, unexpectedly, he ends up sending her a holiday card he sees at the mall when he's walking around with Sarah. Big menorah on it with _'I Got Lit At the Hanukkah Party_' inside and he scrawls his name in it and shoves it into an envelope before he can talk himself out of it. Funny shit, which she's even admitting when she sends him a postcard back, with a few lines of her tiny, precise writing. He's got a stupid grin on his face when he sees those ridiculous ice-skaters at Rockefeller Center on the front, because he knows that's her idea of a joke.

That and a few emails (twelve) and seven short phone calls. That's the extent of it between the two of them all semester and he has no idea whose decision that is.

Unlike Rachel, his mother is relentless. So much for restraint, she's now made it her personal fucking mission to ride his ass every second she can or as she puts it, "help you get through this." As far as he's concerned, there's nothing to get through.

So sometime in the spring he, well he doesn't _stop_ calling home, he just chooses his moments, like he'll call when he knows she's in the middle of a shift. And when she calls him, he hits ignore a lot unless he's on his way to class or something and he knows he only has a few minutes. In the end, it's a tactical error of course, because it make her desperate and and a desperate Miriam Puckerman fights dirty.

He doesn't know how dirty until Rachel calls the tail end of the school year. He's still got a week left before he heads back to the Midwest for a summer of rehab jobs (hitting shit with a sledgehammer is sounding _really_ good at this point), but he knows she's probably finished. Or finished with exams anyway, she's spending the summer in NYC, emailed him a couple weeks ago about a summer internship she's got going through the university with some theatre company. Sounds like a pretty fucking big deal actually, not that he's surprised.

When her name shows up on his display he gets a weird little thing, like a shock or something. Totally due to the fact that she doesn't call that often.

"Hey Berry. 'Sup?"

"Noah...hello." So it's only two words, but she sounds unhappy and he can't figure out how he knows it. "Is your semester is ending on a high note?" she continues.

"It's good," he says trying to figure this out, because obviously they don't do this calling to make small talk thing.

"And your packing? Almost done?"

"Berry, I don't leave until the end of the week. Besides, it's not hard to fill up a couple duffel bags and throw them into the back of the truck."

"No, I suppose not. You know, if you pack your items neatly, they take up less room and it saves you having to iron them later on."

"First, I don't iron _ever_. Second, you didn't call to tell me how to pack. So what's up?"

She pauses for such a long moment that he thinks maybe he's dropped the call, but finally she says reluctantly, "I spent last weekend in Lima, since I won't be home this summer."

"Shit, no wonder you sound depressed." He's definitely hoping that this'll make her laugh.

Another pause. "Noah, I ran into your mother. Actually, it would be fair to say she cornered me at temple."

His stomach lurches sickeningly. "And you're telling me this _why_?"

Her voice is all _emotional_ and he hates that. "I couldn't get her to stop talking and she told me about your father. She asked if I was still in touch with you and she begged me to tell you...she says his treatments aren't going well."

He tells himself he doesn't really blame her because he knows_ exactly_ where to place the blame for this. His mother is like some damaging force of nature, like a tornado, or maybe one of those sinkholes that open up all of a sudden and swallow a couple city blocks. Fuck, he shouldn't blame her at all, but unfairly or not, he's _pissed_ because he's not supposed to have to think about that shit-storm when he's with Rachel, or talking to Rachel or thinking about Rachel. She's supposed to be separate from all that.

Trying to ignore the hit of adrenaline creeping over him, all he knows is that he wants this conversation to be over _now._

So _why_ is he still talking? "Look Berry, my dad was a screw up when he was with us and and an even bigger ass when he left-did my mom happen to mention the little detail about how she was six months pregnant at the time? So him getting sick? Coming back and begging for forgiveness? Doesn't change a single moment of that. It isn't _ever_ going to change that."

"Noah..."

He should shut up. "And I'll tell you the same thing I told my mother-some people don't deserve a second chance."

And then, _fuck_, he remembers his own voice saying _'I'm sorry I ever did this to you.'_ And all he can think of is her sitting on his lap in that tiny black skirt, hands and voice soft, forgiving him like she meant it and then just walking away or letting him walk away or whatever it was and somehow it's only adding fuel to the fire.

She's silent and he barks, "Don't even go there, because there is no way that leaving your kid and your pregnant wife is the same as throwing slushies!"

"I wasn't going to say that" she says indignantly. "I wasn't even thinking about that. It's just that if you change your mind later, you may not have the opportunity...the survival rate for pancreatic cancer is very low. Whatever you decide, you need to be prepared for that outcome."

"Seriously. Stop. You don't know shit about this! What the fuck would you know about waking up and finding that fucker gone-not that he was much use anyway. You? Your biggest problem is that your daddies love you so much they want you to have two fucking majors!"

When she starts shrieking, there's this little, hidden part of him that's happy, that's _thrilled_ to know he can piss her off this much, that whatever weird-ass pull she has over him, at least it's fucking mutual, but as soon as her words start to hit, he freezes.

"You think I don't know anything about being abandoned? You...jerk! You _ass_! What about Shelby? She left me the day I was born! And that's fine, that was the contract, that's the way it was, but then she comes looking for me in the most invasive way possible, she meets me, and _then_ she decides I'm not good enough! Not good enough to meet for coffee or to have an occasional meal with, or to be her daughter in any way! I'm not what she wanted! You have no idea how many nights I cried myself to sleep! So don't you dare! Don't you dare tell me I don't know what it's like to be tossed out like yesterday's trash!"

And then before he can force his mouth to speak, she's gone.

He's not angry any more. Just sick to his stomach.

Then:_ fuck, fuck, fuck._

He's a fucking idiot, not just for hurting her, but because he should know this about her. Hell, he _does _know it about her. She only ever _really_ blew up at him once in high school, not just about something stupid like insulting whatever bullshit singer she was crazy about that day, or saying something more than usually disgusting. He admits he did _that_ sometimes just to get her going, 'cause getting her all pissy and in his face was funny and kind of hot. The start of Junior year though? He totally screwed up, even if it wasn't on purpose.

Practically the only time he ever sees her that year is during Glee because they don't have any classes together and she's playing footsies with Finn during lunch or something. So when Britt and Mike have Finn pulled aside trying to teach him the choreography to their latest number, he slumps into the chair next to her.

"How's your mom doing?"

Rachel tightens up a little bit and turns her head away from him and he almost scowls because even if they aren't friends, _what the hell_?

"She's fine," she says shortly and moves over to sit next to Tina.

And he thinks _fuck her_ if she doesn't want to talk to him, so he asks her again the next day and then again the next week, just variations on a theme, until she completely loses her shit and tells him to go to hell and a lot of other stuff he's glad he doesn't understand. Then she rushes out of the room with Finn following, looking all concerned and a little triumphant (fucker).

He bitches about it later to Santana in his room.

"You've got to stop asking her about her mother," Santana says coolly.

"Just making polite conversation. No reason for her to fucking flip out," he mutters.

She rolls her eyes at him. "Whatever. Look dumbass, if you paid any attention to the rumor mill, you'd know that Shelby isn't in contact with Rachel."

"What?" he asks stupidly.

"No phone calls, no emails, no nothing. Pretty fucking cold of the bitch if you ask me. So if you want information about the baby, I suggest you make nice with Quinn. Now are we going to fuck or what?"

But he just sits there, thinking about Rachel's face when she runs out of the room and Santana makes an impatient noise and puts her top back on.

The next day he shoves a note with the single word '_sorry'_ on it in her locker and avoids the hell out of her for the next couple weeks. Eventually Schue throws them together for a song and when that's over they're back to just regularly not talking much rather than awkwardly not talking at all. It still kind of sucks.

And now he's done it again.

She ignores his calls, which to be honest, surprises him, because he figured she'd want to yell at him some more. He sticks it out for for the rest of the week, because he may be a prick, but he's a prick with exams and a scholarship he has to keep. (Fuck, he's got to grow up sometime.) Friday after his last class he throws his shit into a few bags and points his truck towards New York.

She's going to listen to him whether she wants to or not because he's too fucking old to be doing bullshit like apology notes in lockers.

(He spends most of the drive telling himself that this has shit-all to do with the fact that this is pretty much all he's been wanting to do since December.)

* * *

**A/N: Next up: the two of them back in the same city. Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to know what you think...**


	6. Stay

**A/N: A giant thank you to all the readers and reviewers! You are much appreciated!**

* * *

Rachel puts it off for as long as she can because she knows, _she knows,_ that this conversation is going to go badly. Trying to talk to Noah Puckerman about his father has disaster written all over it in an epically tragic, operatic kind of way and she certainly doesn't needs any of her vaunted psychic abilities to predict that. Although it would have been nice if said powers had put in an appearance before she went to temple on her weekend at home, or at least before Miriam Puckerman pulled her aside at the end of Friday night services.

The older woman makes small talk at first. Questions about school, New York, the distance, who she keeps in touch with. Rachel answers politely (albeit somewhat evasively), but while Noah and his mother look almost nothing alike, there's an expression there that she's seen before on his face. Clearly, Mrs. Puckerman wants something from Rachel.

What follows is an uncomfortable, but blessedly abbreviated account of the events leading up to Mr. Puckerman's departure. Infinitely worse is the story of what brings him back to Lima. Between what Miriam tells her and what she googles later, it's clear that he's not only ill, he's terminal. And then, Rachel can feel her stomach sink as the point of the entire conversation is finally revealed. Simply put, Miriam wants her to convince Noah to contact his father.

(And no, Rachel doesn't have the faintest idea why Mrs. Puckerman thinks she has any influence with her son at all. Perhaps she's already tried everyone else.)

So why is she doing it at all? And she is going to, she knows she is, even as she murmurs a few non-committal words to Noah's mother, while trying to catch Daddy's eye.

Like a lot of thing between the two of them, it's complicated by history-his, hers, and surprisingly theirs.

While it would be untrue to say that they'd always (or possibly even ever) been friends, they've been in the background of each other's lives for a long time, much longer than she's known the rest of the Gleeks. There's temple and while neither family attended every week, that still encompasses a lot of holiday services and community potlucks. Not to mention all the bar and bat mitzvahs that they co-attended; needless to say, Glee was certainly not the first time she'd ever seen him glumly tugging on his tie, wishing he was somewhere else.

She knows all about Eli Puckerman. That story made the rounds extensively throughout their small community, and at nine Rachel was predictably tiny, small enough to be discounted when she burrows in a book in the very back of the community room. At first, she blocks it out-the gossip-mongers were talking about her own fathers last week and probably will be again next week, but her ears prick when she hears the name 'Puckerman'. (She's not admitting it now, and she won't for years, but there's always been something about him that's made her take notice.)

"...out all night...fired from two jobs this year alone..."

"...that boy, a real wild child...and now pregnant again..."

"...gone...no one knows..."

"...good riddance..."

They stop only when Rachel stomps _especially _noisily and slams the door on the way out.

Noah's public face has never been anything but _louder, faster, tougher _concerning the whole situation, but Rachel knows better. She suspects at age nine, and learns even more thoroughly later on what that kind of defection does to a person.

Now, privately she's thinking Noah could be in the right. His father might want absolution, but that doesn't make it Noah's responsibility to provide it.

_Except._

Except for the other thing she knows about Noah. And this one is courtesy of Quinn Fabray and her lies. He's fearless on a sports field, he ruled McKinley with an iron fist, he's a bad-ass, or a BAMF, or whatever else he likes. But pain, at least the emotional variety? He buries all that until it become corrosive.

She doesn't want to see that happen again, even if it puts her in the unwanted position of being truth-teller.

(It takes her days to screw up the courage to do it because it's always late at night, when she's gripping her phone, finger hovering over the contact list, that she thinks about how well that went for everyone last time.)

* * *

The conversation is pretty much what she expected. A fact she's willing to admit only days later when her incandescent rage has cooled slightly. It takes another two days before she accepts that her anger is only tangentially directed at him. He said something thoughtless in Puckermanesque fashion. She's heard worse. For that matter, she's heard worse from him.

Mostly, she's angry at Shelby. And she can't help it, no matter how ridiculous it is, she's angry at _herself_ for caring. She's spent _years_ perfecting not thinking about her mother and for the most part, she's wildly successful at it. So it's beyond disheartening to realize that a dozen careless words are all it takes to rip off that particular bandage and show the ugliness underneath.

She really thought she was over this.

* * *

By Friday, she's hot and tired and even though the setting sun is creating long canyons of shadow, the city is holding on to the heat of the day. Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose as she feels a headache start to take hold somewhere behind her eyes. The noise of the traffic and the sound of a jackhammer from the inevitable summer construction work as she walks along the busy city streets aren't helping. Taking a deep breath as she holds her phone to her ear, she lets herself think for the tiniest of moments that neither is the third-degree she's getting from her father.

"Yes, actually the school did ask me back, but I couldn't do both...I agree, the hours are an enormous commitment, but it's a great opportunity...Well, I was thinking of the knowledge I'd gain as well as the potential contacts, but yes, I suppose it will look good on my resume...I start on Monday...Of course, I'm excited, just a little tired...Still recovering from exams, I guess...Yes, Dad, I love you too...No that's fine, just give a kiss to Daddy for me...I promise, I'll talk to you both tomorrow."

She ends the call, but she only has a few seconds to think longingly about the quiet of her air-conditioned dorm room only a few blocks away before her phone is vibrating again. She fixes a smile back on her face (ridiculous, she knows, since he can't see her.) "Yes, Dad?"

There's a long pause. "No. It's Noah. Shit, I didn't think you were actually going to answer."

She can't possibly be shocked to hear his voice, he's been trying to call for days. (Not today, though.) It takes her a moment to gather herself. Their fight, it may not really be about him, only it is a little, and it's all such a tangled mess and besides, she's embarrassed. So it's a real effort for her to force out, "Noah. Hello."

He seems to feel the constraint as well or at any rate his voice sounds odd when he says, "I want to talk to you."

Isn't that what they're doing? He's taking her confusion as a refusal because he rushes on. "Seriously. I'll wait outside your building again if I have to, but I've already been by twice and the security guard at the desk is starting to look at me sideways."

"You're in New York?" she squeaks, unable to control her voice.

He laughs shortly. (At her? At himself?) "Yeah."

And for all her confusion and embarrassment, it's suddenly simple. He's here. "Yes."

"Yes to what?" he asks gruffly.

She sighs inwardly. Are they taking turns being obtuse? "Yes, I want to see you. Yes, I'd like to speak with you as well. Take your pick."

"That's...that's good. Where are you now?"

"I'm almost at Union Square Park. There's an ice-cream vendor near the fountain." She needs something cool. It's still hot as hell out here.

(However, her headache has mysteriously disappeared.)

15 minutes later he's laughing at her choice (lemon-rosemary sorbet, best place to find it in the city) and she's rolling her eyes at his tragic inability to decide between colored or chocolate sprinkles. It feels so normal, that she's forced to remind herself that they don't really have a normal. They sit on a park bench as the shadows merge into summer twilight and for a while it's like they've made a secret pact to sweep it all under the rug, to pretend that nothing has happened.

They talk about the weather, her internship, his summer job, _everything_ but whatever brought him a hundred miles out of his way to see her.

(Still, whenever they pause for too long, the air seems unpleasantly thick.)

Finally he brings it up, leaning forward, looking out into the park, anywhere but at her, she thinks as she watches his face from under her lashes.

"I'm sorry."

And it's not as startling as it should be, an apology on his lips, because she's starting to recognize that he isn't entirely the boy she knew in high school. Just as well. She's not exactly the girl he knew either.

"What I said, I wasn't thinking about Shelby, wasn't thinking at all I guess," he continues. "And then, shit, I never explained about that. About Beth."

As far as she knows, he never talks about Beth to anyone and it makes her heart hurt, for both of them. "I...thanks. I shouldn't have..."

He interrupts. "No. That was my mom. Believe me, I know. She's just got these ideas about you..." he trails off for a moment and Rachel looks at him, puzzled, wondering about the flush on the back of his neck. "I just...I want to tell you how that happened. With Beth and Shelby."

Her throat tightens and she can't say anything, just dips her head and scuffs her sandals on the pavement.

"When Shelby approached us...I don't know why Quinn said yes, but I agreed because I thought you and Shelby...I thought you two would be close and I could talk to you about her, about Beth I mean. I thought I wouldn't lose her completely if you were around the two of them, not like I would if she went to a couple of strangers. I didn't know. I didn't have any idea. I mean, god, Shelby made you that dress. _Fuck._ The last thing I wanted to do was make things worse for you."

"That dress was beautiful wasn't it? She gave me a glass too," Rachel says distantly and it's like ice-water running through her veins rather than blood. Then feeling him shift uncomfortably on the bench next to her, she sighs. "Noah, what happened between Shelby and myself didn't have anything to do with you or Beth. For whatever reason, Shelby gave up on me well before that, even if I tried to keep fooling myself for a while."

"Fucking stupid of her," he mumbles and and he's leaning into her even as her mouth curves up sadly.

"I suppose it was," she agrees, relaxing towards him slightly, accepting the comfort he's offering. It's certainly a point of view she hasn't heard proposed before (not that she talks about this with anyone). It's kind of nice. All of it.

They sit in silence for a while.

Finally, he sits up a little straighter, pulling away, and she tries not to mind. "Shit, it's starting to get dark. I should probably walk you back to your dorm and get out of here."

"Stay," she demands, without really thinking about it.

He looks at her doubtfully, but she ignores it. "It's getting late, and you'll have a much easier time managing traffic in daylight anyway. You don't have to be in Grand Rapids until Sunday night, right?"

"Yeah...," he stretches out the word.

"So stay an extra day. You haven't seen the city in summertime yet."

* * *

Actually, she's surprised when he agrees so quickly and it catches her off guard a little-she's busy thinking of a few more arguments to trot out for him. So busy, that she doesn't really think about why she wants him to stay so badly until she's walking back to his truck with him so he can pick up a change of clothes.

The truth is that she doesn't want to feel sad and angry any more and maybe this is crazy because he's been at least the indirect cause of her feeling both in the last week, but for once the inconstancy doesn't bother her.

She needs a distraction from herself.

And it's not like they're going to do anything stupid, not with him leaving in a day.

(When his hand drifts to the small of her back as they cross the street, she's not so sure.)

* * *

She slides her keycard in the door and instead of a blast of cool, she's greeted with the same warm, stale air as in the hallway. She steps aside to let him in, gesturing to Olivia's side of the room. "You can put your stuff there. She's in Hong Kong for the summer."

He nods and she fiddles with the thermostat for a minute, complaining, "Ugh! Why is it so hot in here?" and then recognizing what she said, perches on the edge of her bed waiting for his inevitable innuendo.

Instead he shrugs. "I'll cool you down."

She sincerely doubts that.

He crosses the room to her. "Here, turn around," he directs and stupidly, her breath catches slightly as she brings one leg up on the bed, turning away from him.

"Lift your hair up off your neck."

She pulls her hair into a loose ponytail, fastens it with a hair-tie from her wrist, and then twists around and watches him pour a little water from his water bottle into his cupped palm. He spreads it on her neck and she shivers when a few drops roll down the line of her spine. "Better?" he asks quietly. She feels herself nodding and leans infinitesimally into his touch. He pulls away, pours out a little more water and then his fingers are tracing delicate lines, drawing the cool liquid up to the hollow behind her ears and around to her collarbone.

She feels the bed sink as he seats himself behind her, still only his tips of his fingers touching her, still only exploring exposed skin and then he leans in and blows gently across her neck and shoulders. Chills race along her body and she can feel goosebumps spreading, but it's her tightening nipples that forces a tiny gasp out of her.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice gravelly, maybe a little unsure. His hands have moved to loosely grip her upper arms, his thumbs rubbing slow circles on her shoulder blades. "You're cooler, right?"

Yes, in a very limited sense. Mostly, she's on fire.

She turns in his grasp, trying to read his expression, but his eyes are hooded and the only thing that seems to suggest that he's similarly affected is his breathing-surely slightly more rapid than normal? His gaze wavers, dips to her mouth and all she can think is _to hell with it_, so she brushes her lips against his, and then again and again, pressing small teasing kisses on him as his hands slide to her hips.

This doesn't count as doing something stupid, does it?

And then he's kissing her back and she doesn't care.

He pulls her around completely, so now she's kneeling between his legs and his face is tilted up to hers and she nibbles his bottom lip gently before sucking on it gently, encouraging him to open his mouth for her. Their tongues dance and through the haze of sensation she feels him responding to her every move, but he's still letting her set the pace, and somehow it's making her bold.

Bold enough to arch her back and press her chest into his, moaning appreciatively as one hand comes up and rolls first one and then the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger and _god_, even through her through her thin cotton blouse and bra it feels _fantastic, _so _s_he returns the favor, her hand finding its way under his shirt to the silver ring she knows is there, tugging delicately, revelling in his growl and the way he whispers, "_baby" _and_ "just like that_" against the corner of her mouth.

Bold enough to ease back onto one elbow, and pull him on top of her, tongues tangled again, letting her thighs part as he settles in between them, tugging at his shirt until he yanks it off, running her hands along his arms and the muscles of his back, everywhere she can reach.

Bold enough to bite out his name when she feels him hard against her center even through layers of clothes and then demand breathlessly, "_Touch me._"

His response is immediate; one hand slides up her skirt, lightly stroking up and down along her inner thigh, until she's gasping, her hips moving against him. He sweeps across her panties, pressing at just the right spots and he must be able to feel exactly how soaked she is, because he's practically purring his approval as he pulls them down her thighs.

"_Noah_," she says again and it's almost a whine and his voice is hot in her ear.

"Gonna make you feel _so good_." And then _he is_, plunging one finger, then another into her wet heat, the movement of his hand matching the small involuntary rotations of her hips. Her head is thrown back, eyes closed, so she can't see, only feel him touching her exactly like she wants, like he knows how to pluck each individual sensation from her, like her body is an instrument, and then before she can even ask, he's picking up the pace, moving faster and everything is spiralling, tightening.

"_Baby_," his voice is almost pleading, "_baby_, look at me."

She tilts her head and opens her eyes with an effort and stares at him and his face is totally unguarded, and for a second it's like a code that she's finally on the verge of breaking, but then his thumb brushes alongside her clit, once, twice, a third time and she's the one who's breaking, clenching and shuddering against him, while he breathes words she can't understand into her shoulder, her hair.

When she recovers herself a little, she traces her hands down his side, stopping for a moment to run her fingers along his abs and the cut of hip and then lower, sliding to the front of his cargo shorts to find his erection. He groans and thrusts once into her hand, while she makes quick work of the button and zipper and then he's _right there_ and really she shouldn't be surprised that he's gorgeous all over. She wraps her hand around him and every noise he makes, every line of his body is telling her that he loves it and it doesn't take much, a half dozen strokes, a curl of her wrist, and he's coming, hot and sticky all over her hand.

"Fuck...that was..._fuck_," he says collapsing to one side of her, and she'd gloat a little at making him incoherent, but as she lies back next to him, breathing heavily, she has to admit that it's not like she's in much better shape.

He leans over the bed and grabs his t-shirt, offering it to her and she giggles, "Tissues are on the desk," and he snags a few and helps her clean off, before sinking back down and throwing an arm over her.

It's unfortunate, but probably inevitable, when her brain starts working again.

He's smoothing down her skirt along her thigh and tracing the line on her leg where it settles, and she's thinking about things like distance and timing and condoms.

He's scraping a fingernail gently along the sliver of skin showing where her blouse is riding up and she's thinking that this boy, _this man_, could break her heart.

He's starting to work the buttons at her neckline and she's starting to talk.

"Noah, that was _amazing_..."

"_Mmmm_," and he's nuzzling her neck, unbuttoning, pressing a kiss to newly exposed skin.

"But..._wait_."

He groans, but his hands still.

"I think...I think maybe we should stop. This has the potential to be quite complicated and I'm not sure if continuing along this road is the wisest course."

She has never wanted to be wrong more in her life, and large part of her is dying for him to persuade her that this really is a good idea.

Instead, he's pushing up. "Yeah, I gotcha," he says and grabs the blanket off the bottom of her bed and tosses it on the floor, following it with his body.

She'd tell him that he could use Olivia's bed, but she thinks he'll just roll his eyes at her. Or worse.

"Are you mad?" she asks quietly.

"Shit, Berry," he says, folding his arms under his head and looking at her irritatedly, "I'm not a complete asshole."

She glares right back. "That's a perfect example right there! Is it really too much to ask for you to address me by my first name, given the circumstances?"

He snorts. "You mean the circumstance where I made you forget your own name five minutes ago?"

She throws a pillow at him and he grins and thanks her so she flings herself over so she doesn't have to look at his smug face.

After a few minutes: "C'mere."

She's going to ignore him.

"Just c'mere," he says again and she flops over with a huff to find him still on the floor with his hand held out to her. With a frown, she takes it and he gently tugs her onto the floor with him.

"It's okay," he says, tucking her in the crook of his arm. She's tense for a moment, not knowing if he's talking about what they did do or what she prevented them from doing or something else entirely.

"Stop thinking so hard," he rumbles.

"I resent that," she says as she settles into his side.

"Course you do," he says sleepily.

She yawns and throws one arm over his chest. "Noah, we do have two perfectly adequate beds in this room."

"I know. _Shhhhh._ Just close your eyes."

She's asleep in minutes.


	7. Meaning

**A/N: I appreciate all of you more than I can say.**

* * *

("_Wait_.")

So he's totally _not_ some kind of asshole.

All evidence to the contrary, his mother raised him right and he sure as fuck knows that 'no' means 'no'. He's not going to push her to do anything she doesn't want to do, even if her lips are pink and swollen and her eyes are half-lidded and her thighs are still parted a little for him, _because of him_.

Fact is, it doesn't matter at all that her body is into it, if her head isn't.

("This has the potential to be quite complicated.")

_No shit._

Sex has never been complicated for him.

The consequences maybe, (you can bet your ass he's religious about wrapping it up now). The morning after, sure, awkward at times. Getting it, sometimes, although pussy has never been all that difficult for him to find. But sex itself is as natural as breathing. And honestly, usually he puts just about that much thought into it.

But this, with Rachel? He's lying on the floor (_again_), so fucking close to her he can smell her perfume and all he can think about is her mouth and her hands all over him and those fucking awesome little noises she makes when he touches her just right. And then remembering her falling apart under him and he should be wishing like hell it was because of his dick and not his hand, but he doesn't even care because she's looking at him all soft and open, and he's wanting shit, he doesn't even know what. Whatever it is though, it sure as hell isn't in the cards.

So maybe she's right. 'Cause once he's had her, really had her, taken everything from her and given it all right back, he's got a feeling that he isn't going to want to stop.

Three minutes later, he's convinced her right onto the floor next to him (no sex is one thing, he never said anything about not touching her) and not long after that, he's got his face buried in her hair and he's listening to her breath even out as she falls asleep.

Well, hell.

Was this what she meant by complicated?

* * *

She's in the shower when he wakes up the next morning which sucks on multiple levels because A: she's not still sleeping all sprawled out on him (whatever, he likes it, sue him) and B: he's not in there with her. On the other hand, he thinks as he stands and tries to stretch the stiffness out of his muscles, maybe he's avoided having her yell at him for stupidly persuading her to sleep on the floor. Plus it also gives him time to think about Mrs. Wasserman, his 87 year old neighbor and Reynolds, that dude from high school with the missing testicle and anything else it takes to get his mind off that tight little package of wet, naked goodness.

He's not disappointed when she comes out already dressed (lie: he totally is, until he's dead or something, there is never going to be a time when he doesn't want to see her in just a towel or preferably less). But then she comes straight over to him, and says good morning with a small smile and if it's not like she's telling him she _needs_ him right now, she also isn't freaking out about last night, so he's willing to call that a win.

Also a win that she's biting her lip and looking a little distracted while trying not to stare at his chest. _Awesome._

She's got a couple of hours of work to do for her internship-just filing and sorting mail today, but she's still buzzing with excitement over it. They agree on a place to meet when she's done and then she's gathering her things and he thinks she's just going to leave with that wave when she turns back and surprises him with a kiss. Fucking good surprise, she's up on her toes and he snakes his arm around her, pulling her in and _damn_ he loves that strawberry lipgloss.

Pulling back, she sighs a little and his hand tightens on her hip momentarily and his dick starts talking. "You know I'm good if you want to change your mind. Totally normal for you to want a piece of this."

Her lips twitch like she's trying to hold back a smile even as she narrows her eyes. "Should I change my mind, you'll be the first to know." And then she pats him on the ass and walks out the door.

The rest of the day? Like that, only more so.

He meets her around noon in Central Park and they walk around the reservoir and when that gets too hot, they find a shady spot under some trees. After some maneuvering, they settle comfortably at angles to each other with him flat on his back looking up at the patterns the leaves make against the sky and her with her head resting on his chest. And the whole time their conversation has been friendly, easy, which should confuse the fuck out of him. For two people who barely talked in high school, they sure don't run out of things to say.

So, maybe she's right, maybe they are friends but if that's the case, they're like friends who touch _all the time_, just small touches, like her hand on his elbow when she wants to make a point or him pulling a piece of grass from her hair when they stand up again, his hands skimming down her arms.

With anyone else, this would just be some teasing extension of foreplay and shit, the heat the two of them are producing could probably burn the city down. She's got some experience (fuck his life) and she never really was the shy retiring virgin, even when she was a virgin, and damn, he'd like to think that they're on the same page. Everything he knows is telling him that if he doesn't leave soon, something is going to happen between the two of them. And whether it's a repeat of last night (totally good) or whether it goes further (even better) he's starting to feel like he's on that piece-of-shit go-kart he and Finn built, careening down Hawthone Hill.

(All he broke then was his arm.)

They're still in the park and it's all trees and the New York skyline rising up in the distance. He's almost convinced himself to be smart for once in his life and just leave before it all gets fucked up, when he notices the silence has grown a little less friendly. When he turns to look at her, she's got that annoyed _'why aren't you listening to me'_ face. (Hudson had a long term lease on that shit.)

"Sorry. Distracted by all the..." and he trails off, waving a hand at their surroundings. _More_ or _less_ believable than the fact that Rachel Berry is slowly taking over his mind?

Definitely less, but she buys it anyway because all she says is, "That's fine, Noah." Then she's looking down and fiddling with her bag while she's walking.

"Tell me," he says. She's biting her lip and it goes straight to his dick for a second, how bad he wants her to be biting _his_ lip.

"There's a party tonight. I know it would make for a long drive tomorrow, but I'd love for you to go with me."

Long drive is an understatement. It basically means he'll have to leave really fucking early and drive straight through. It's a shit idea.

"All right. Sounds good."

Since when has he listened to common sense? Since never, that's when.

* * *

Party turns out to be at some trust fund baby's apartment a few blocks away from Rachel's place. The two of them hang out for a while, and then she gets pulled away by a few girls she knows, and he starts talking baseball to some guy he met at her dorm the last time he was in town. The night wears on, and he ends up in the living room with some blonde yapping at him and he's listening disinterestedly, while keeping a close eye on Rachel's hemline across the room. Girl is one stray breeze from showing panty and it's a total flashback to every Glee practice ever.

At some point the blonde gets pissed, (he's a little surprised, mostly because he'd forgotten she was there) and she's hissing something about his girlfriend keeping him on a short leash. He doesn't argue because it'll make her leave him the fuck alone and besides, whatever, he likes it. On the heels of her departure, Rachel makes her way over to him with a glass of wine in her hand and a beer for him.

"I didn't mean to leave you here on your own for so long," she says, perching on the edge of the couch next to him.

"I kept myself entertained," he says easily, touching her upper arm gently with the cold beer bottle, so she'll turn and look at him, watching in fascination as goosebumps rise along her shoulder.

"The blonde? I noticed." She makes a face.

"Nope. Just watching you." He's close enough (and yeah, he's looking for it) to see the short, sharp inhale and the way she takes quick a sip of her wine. "Notice you're holding your liquor a little better than the last time I saw you partying."

She frowns, puzzled and then laughs. "Graduation night! God, I had such a headache the next morning."

"Yeah, well Tina was always heavy-handed with the rum."

"Now you tell me!"

And as long as they're on the subject of things he probably should have told her. "I wanted to kiss you that night too."

She's quiet for so long, he's about to start backpedalling, blame it on the (three) beers or distract her (piss her off?) by commenting on the way her tits look in that dress. (_Amazing_ just so you know and he's _nearly_ sure no bra.)

"You didn't because of Finn, right?" she asks finally and for a minute he doesn't get it. Because of Finn? Shit, it he was enough of a dick to fuck Finn's girl just for the thrill of bagging the head cheerleader and chastity queen rolled into one, then he certainly would have been enough of an idiot to kiss the one girl Hudson ever dated that he actually _had _feelings for. (Or _has_ feelings for. Maybe.)

"Finn had nothing to do with it. I didn't kiss you because _you_ didn't want me to."

She won't meet his eyes, but he sees her tongue flash out and wet her top lip nervously. "Noah...I think I _always_ thought about you more than I should have."

All this? All this _feeling_ swirling around somewhere in his chest? Totally just the effect of his jeans tightening. Which doesn't even make any sense. _Shut up._

He puts down his beer bottle, distantly pleased that his hand isn't shaking and does the same with her wine glass which she releases nervelessly, automatically. Then he stands, grabs her wrist, and hauls her up and out the door, and he thinks she's going to start protesting about how rude this is, but she just follows him with her eyes shining and her lips parted and if she keeps looking at him like that, they aren't even going to make it back to her place.

In fact, they manage to make it to the stairwell, and he's hoping like hell that everyone else is thinking elevator, because the two of them, they're just _on_ each other and it's not very gentle, tongues plunging and teeth clashing, and he's got his hand under one of her knees, pulling it up and around his hip, grinding into her, her dress riding up to who knows where. He slides one dress strap down and _holy fuck_ almost dies because yeah, he was pretty sure she wasn't wearing a bra but when he's running his tongue along the underside of that pert little breast, it does something to his head and not just his cock.

He pulls her nipple into his mouth, suckling and then catching it delicately in his teeth and she's whimpering and clutching at the back of his head and his shoulder, when the stairwell door slams open and a group of drunk partiers crash by, laughing. He blocks her in, covering her with his body, and she buries her head in his shoulder, gripping his shirt. When the stairwell clears, she's looking up at him hazily, doubtfully and he's suddenly so desperate to convince her, he barely recognizes his own voice.

"This doesn't have to be anything we don't want it to be. It can just be us." And he's losing her, she's stiffening up, the line of her spine tensing under his fingertips. "It's just us, right here, right now. Rachel. _Rachel_."

And he's said something or done something and he doesn't know what but he doesn't have time to think because she's melting back into him. "Not here," she breathes up at him.

The relief is so sharp he almost laughs because, yeah, probably not a great idea to fuck her on the stairs.

Twenty minutes later, when he's watching her slip the thin straps off her shoulders, allowing her dress to slide down and pool by her feet, he's definitely willing to admit that fucking her in her room is a much, much better idea. And he'd tell her that if his head wasn't spinning and it's all he can do to try and hold his shit down. He's dizzy thinking about the possibilities and the part of him that wants to explore and kiss and caress every inch of her for hours is at war with the part that wants to take her up against the door this minute and give them the release they both want. (_Fucking finally_.)

And somewhere in the back of his head, he's asking himself what made her change her mind about this. Is she's going to change it back now, or worse, regret it later? And hell, how and when is this going to come back to bite him, break to bits in his fingers, turn to ash? But it's _such_ a remote voice, and he has _so_ much experience ignoring it, and then she's looking at him challengingly, with a sexy smile on her lips and her thumbs hooked under the waistband of the scrap of black lace barely covering her ass and _fuck no_, he wants that job, so he manages to choke out a "_let me..._."

He shucks off his jeans and shirt to even things out and then closes the space between them, kissing her with just the right combination of pressure and heat and softness, just the way she likes, the way he found out she liked when they were both sixteen and for a few hours they could pretend that the world ended at her bedroom door.

She's kissing a trail along his jawline and he actually shudders when her soft voice vibrates near his ear.

"You must think I'm crazy," she says. "Or at the very least, capricious." She nibbles his earlobe. "But I've always, my entire life, gone after what I wanted and I think I'll _die_ if you leave tomorrow and we never get a chance to do this. " And she slides one hand to the front of his boxers, tracing the outline of his cock, looking down, watching her hand against him.

And there it is again, the shadow of the girl she was, sitting on the bleachers and telling him that she wants _everything_ too much. But this time what she wants is him, and he's damn well going to do something about it.

"Die, huh?" he murmurs, thrusting gently into her hand, relishing the moan he pulls from her when he scrapes his fingertips up and down her sides. "Can't have that."

He knots one hand in her hair, winds the other behind her back, almost supporting her because she's pressing herself against him so tightly, he's not even sure how she's keeping her balance. And yeah, outstanding, but he's got a girl to get naked.

It almost makes him laugh, the little pissed off grumble she makes when he pulls back, not far, still close enough to see her eyes darken when he stares hotly down at her, close enough to hear her hiss of indrawn breath with he guides her backwards until her back hits the cold wall next to her bed.

He makes his way down her body, pressing kisses and words like "_beautiful..._," and "_goddamn perfect..._," and "_fuck, those legs...,_" into her skin until he's kneeling in front of her, working her panties slowly down her legs, helping her step out of them.

Pushing her hands away from her hips, he links his fingers with hers and bites gently down on the crease of her leg once and then when he hears her gasp, again, sucking hard and then laving spot with his tongue.

"Noah," she calls and he hears the tremor in her voice.

"Yeah, baby. It's okay," he says soothingly. He moves her hands to his shoulders, feels her nails bite in a little, which _god_...and then he hooks her left leg over his shoulder and she's open for him, all warm and wet and exactly like what he's been imagining for_fucking_ever, only better. He runs a fingertip along her slit, gathering moisture, then watches her face, her eyes half closed, the sweep of her tongue across her lips, as he sucks her wetness off his finger.

"_Fuck_, don't tease..."

Shit, he could lose it from that alone, her pretty little mouth curling around the word.

And honestly, he's not planning on saying '_no_' to her _ever_, so he angles in, licking a narrow ribbon along the exact line his finger had followed, then moving alongside her clit with flicking motions that make her cries bounce off the walls in a way that makes him hope her neighbors are heavy sleepers.

He's got one hand at her hip holding her up against the wall because she doesn't seem to be doing a very good job of that herself and the other sliding between her legs. He's taking his time, paying attention to the noises she makes, the minute thrusts of her hips, trading back and forth between sliding his tongue deep inside her and then his fingers. Using feather light touches followed by pressure followed by sloppy sucking kisses over and over again until she's tightening everywhere, her heel digging into his back, fingers gripping his shoulders and the back of his head.

"_Right there_...just a little more..._Noah_!" With his name, she hits a breathy note that he's sure is going to be etched into his brain permanently and she's coming, all her tension releasing in a series of waves rippling across her body. And then, when the last of it dies away, he almost has to catch her as she starts to slide down the wall. Shifting them both quickly, he pulls her into his lap, her back against his chest, his cock pressed up against her and he wants to bury himself in her, but right now he'll just smooth her hair away from her face and kiss the dip of her shoulder.

She's breathing in hard, her eyes closed tightly and then without warning she twists in his grip, kissing him hard, her tongue darting out to taste herself on his lips, which fuck, he doesn't care who you are, that shit is hot.

"Noah. _Bed_." she demands and he smirks because that's all him, thank you very much, but his complacence is replaced by something like awe when she pushes herself off him, and spreads herself out on the bed, one hand trailing up her side to pinch a nipple, the other brushing at the apex of her thighs.

"Fuck..._Rach_," he groans and her smile is the mirror of his own as he crawls up on the bed to join her.

* * *

Much later she, _not even fucking joking_, she must have literally fucked his brains out because it's three a.m. and the two of them are on her bed curled up together just quietly kissing and talking a little after round two. She's laughing at something he said and she braces herself up on one arm looking down at him and just like that his mouth is dry and his mind is empty and he just flat-out asks, "Would you do it? If you were in my position. Would you call him, or see him or whatever?"

She slides one leg over him and pushes all the way up, lightly balancing just above his hips and _god_ he _loves _that she's not shy about her body.

"If it were Shelby you mean," she says thoughtfully. "I don't know if I could. I'm definitely not saying you _should_. I do think you should give it some very serious thought though, and soon."

"But not right now, right?" he says, bringing his hands to her hips and pulling her down against him, groaning at the slide of her slick pussy against his cock.

"No, not right now," she breathes, leaning over him to grab another condom off the bedside table.

* * *

He's up early in the morning cursing silently because he can't afford to ignore the light slanting through the curtains for another minute. He kisses her awake and she swats sleepily at him, probably thinking that he wants to go again (which isn't an unreasonable assumption since his hand is slipping between her thighs. Fucking impossible to resist.)

"Baby," he says softly, "I've got to go."

That wakes her, and she sits up a little, and she's so gorgeous with her hair in a tangle and her skin glowing against the white bed sheet that's loosely covering her.

He wants to say something, but almost can't because his heart is beating so hard he thinks he's about to have a heart attack. And besides, words have always had a way of letting him down.

"That wasn't nothing, you know," he says finally, awkwardly. "I mean it wasn't just because you were there and that dress was fucking hot. It wasn't meaningless."

She reaches over to him and cups his cheek and he closes his eyes and leans into it a little.

"I know," she says.


	8. Do Not Go Softly

Not surprisingly, spending the night with Noah Puckerman between your thighs is the polar opposite of restful.

More like _amazing_, even the morning after with a hickey on her thigh and a touch of whisker burn along her collarbone and the slight ache of muscles that until very recently may have been underutilized. He'd just made her feel _so_ good and not solely in terms of the way he made her fall apart over and over again. (Although that? If anything, Santana's locker room evaluation was a total understatement.)

No. What she's thinking about now is the way he held her hand all the way back from the party last night, like she was something precious that might disappear if he let go. And the way they'd laughed together in the middle of the night after he raided her tiny refrigerator for _'anything fucking edible, baby-gotta keep my energy up.' _And the way he'd said her name when he slowly pushed inside her for the first time. (Is she supposed to _still_ be hearing that, the sound of his rough whisper against her skin?)

She's not exactly sure when she made the decision to have sex with him. Actually, to restate: she's not sure _if_ she made the decision to have sex with him or whether it was all some unconscious and inevitable process at work over the last two days.

Or admittedly, quite a bit longer.

It's not like she ever sat down and thought it through, or made a list, or moved cons into the pros column. It doesn't seem like a less dangerous idea or a more tempting one simply because she woke up yesterday curled up next to him _again_, or because he slung an arm over her shoulder as they walked through the park, or because she felt his eyes on her from across the room at that party.

It's just that at some point she decides she doesn't care about the potential complications or consequences anymore.

Now, even though she's exhausted (all right, more like _completly_ sated) and should be trying to rest, or at least clear her mind for the week ahead, she's caught up in a tangle of emotion. Because it's not meaningless for her either. Far from it. The problem is that she can't seem to assign an _exact_ meaning to it, no many how much time she spends turning over in her mind. There's no neat box to place him in.

She knows it wasn't just some random hook-up. He told her it wasn't. And besides, she knew it wasn't even before that because he told her with his body; like hands and muscles and the care and delicacy he'd used has it's own language.

(And _this_ is the state she's in after two short interactions over a six month period.)

So basically and maybe it's Noah's visit, or the result of last night's activities, or maybe she's just a little agitated, but she can't think of another way to put this: basically she's _fucked_.

_Tomorrow._ Tomorrow she'll call him and say hello. Ask about his drive. Mention the tee-shirt he left behind (he's definitely not getting it back, though). And possibly she can start to figure out if she's alone in all this.

Whatever _this_ is.

* * *

_Sometimes it's like this_.

"The plasterers were late, _again,_ so we decided to start on the kitchen. And then, fuck Rach, we opened up the wall behind the cupboards and this giant ass rat comes shooting out and I swear, Jeff was about to lose his shit, and Ramon starts chasing it around with his sledgehammer and then he nearly brains Jeff with it.

"Noah, that's absolutely terrible! Also a little disgusting. Why are you even telling me this?"

"It's funny. Plus, you know, I kinda like telling you about my day."

"_Oh_. Well...good. So what did you say to to the plasterers when they arrived?"

_Or this._

"I swear Noah, if Miranda Watson thinks she's going to get into the director's good graces by wearing blouses cut so low that we can practically see her bellybutton, she's got another thing coming!"

"Hold on Rach. How low exactly?"

"_Noah!"_

"No, wait. I just need a basis of comparison. Remember the dress you wore at the Regionals afterparty junior year? Like that?"

"Really Noah! And anyway, lower than that!"

"Lower, huh? So like that red bikini you used to have?"

...

"About like that, yes."

"_Shit. _That's..._yeah_. Rach, you still got that packed away somewhere?"

_And not very often, but occasionally it's like this._

"So I got half way there, seriously my only fucking weekend off in six weeks, and I drive for two and a half hours just to turn around and drive back."

"What did you do then, Noah?"

"Then I told myself to stop crying like a little bitch and I turned _back_ around and went to see them. Or him, I guess."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not much to talk about. It was...shitty. I told you he's in respite care now, right? But, we talked for a while, although it's sure as hell not like some Oprah moment. As far as I'm concerned, we didn't resolve shit. It was good to see my mom and sister though. Sounds stupid, but it's not just about me and him and our problems. It's about them too. They need me, I don't know...to be available or something."

"That doesn't sound stupid at all."

_Once it's like this._

The phone call that comes in mid August is completely different from any of the others. It's _really _early for one thing and he knows her schedule by now, knows that she's only been in bed for a few hours after a late night at the theater, so he usually waits until his lunch break to call. She thinks maybe he's forgotten. His tone is different, it isn't amused or flirtatious or even serious, it's just detached. He delivers the news (it's not unexpected, Noah had briefly mentioned a ventilator last week). When she asks if his mother is having a funeral service, he rattles off the place and time readily enough. When she tells him she'll be there, he says '_okay'_ and _'I'll see you then_.'

He asks her briefly about a theatre thing and she answers a little absently, making a mental list of what to pack and who to call. He's not really responding anyway, so possibly he's just finding the sound of her voice soothing (she does have an exceptionally musical tone to her voice).

After he says '_goodbye_' but before he hangs up, his voice dips for a moment. "Thanks, Rach."

She's really glad he called.

* * *

Rabbi Wiseman chooses to close the prayers with a lengthy discourse on the value and nature of forgiveness and she watches Noah from several rows back, sees his mouth tighten and his jaw set.

Rachel expected the funeral to be distressing, of course. She just never realized what she would find most difficult was simply watching Noah silently endure it.

* * *

Everyone continues on to the Puckerman's house to pay their respects and she catches up briefly with Mike and Matt, which is nice because what from what she's observed of dozens of glee club hook ups and break ups, people pick sides during times of conflict and she had always assumed that they wouldn't be interested in talking to her any more. And it's a real pleasure to see Tina, who she's kept up with sporadically since graduation. At one point, she catches sight of Finn, which isn't unexpected, since she'd seen him slip in the synagogue with Carole just before the first reading, but the next time she looks over he's gone.

Noah is nowhere to be seen.

When she politely breaks off the conversation, she tells them she's going to find something to drink. Really, she's just anxious to see him. As she moves from room to room, she looks around with interest. She's only been here a few times, mostly at parties he threw when his mother and sister were out of town. (Finn had never wanted to stay long.) Before she goes far she's drawn in by a group of family pictures hanging on the wall, in particular by one of a young Noah holding a wrapped bundle that is presumably Sarah, his face awed. Something about the gentle curve of his smile is so familliar that almost involuntarily she reaches up a finger to trace it over the glass of the frame and then she jumps guiltily when the bundle herself, (now thirteen? fourteen?) captures her arm.

"My brother says you go to school in _New York City_. Tell me _everything_ about it." Sarah says excitedly, dragging her up the stairs. "Lima _sucks balls_."

At the top of the landing they almost collide with Noah who barks, "Watch your mouth, shorty."

"Up yours," Sarah responds cheerfully and he laughs and yanks her hair.

"Lemme just borrow Rachel for a second," he tells his sister and then pulls her into his bedroom without waiting for a response.

He's changed out of his suit, (which she'd recognized vaguely as dating from Nationals, senior year), and what little hair he has is wet, maybe from the shower and it's horribly inappropriate given the timing, but _god_, he's close enough so she can smell his cologne or aftershave or whatever, and honestly, is it fair for one man to be so sinfully gorgeous in that white button down which shows off the frame of his shoulders nicely and...

"Hey," he says.

"Hello," she replies, completely losing her train of thought. "How are you? And Sarah, and your mother, of course?"

He shrugs. "Okay. We all had time to, you know..."

She nods.

"It's good to see you," he says, taking a step closer, the hand still on her elbow travelling to her hip.

"You too," she says and it's almost a sigh and apparently it's all the agreement he needs as he kisses her, and she winds her arms around his neck.

It's hot and sweet and not nearly long enough because they both hear his mother calling his name from the base of the stairs. He tightens his arms around her momentarily, pressing her close and then releases her.

"Later," he promises, his eyes dark and then as he opens the door to find his sister staring at the two of them with one eyebrow raised (Rachel can't help wondering if that's genetic). He rolls his eyes at Sarah and mouths _"good luck,"_ to her.

By the time Rachel finishes telling Sarah _everything _about New York City, (and maybe, possibly, sort of promising she can come for a visit, damn that persuasive Puckerman charm) the afternoon is well advanced and people are beginning to leave. Mike and Matt are actually at the door since Mike has an early flight tomorrow and Matt is his ride. They both give her a big hug and make her promise to stay in touch and she smiles back shyly and promises that she will.

She doesn't want to go, though, until she's done something concrete to help, so she goes into the kitchen and starts dealing with the mountains of food that people have brought, covering platters, making room in the refrigerator and rooting through the cupboards looking for storage containers.

"Tupperware's in the cabinet by the sink," a familiar voice says and she whirls around to find Finn. He nods at the correct cabinet and crosses to the refrigerator to get himself a soda.

"Thank you," she says awkwardly.

It's uncomfortable, because for one thing the last time he saw her, about a year ago in Walgreens, he'd completely ignored her. And for another, some of the things he'd said to her when they broke up were extremely harsh and while she knows intellectually that they were said in the heat of the moment, _'self-centered bitch'_ is somewhat hard to forgive. (He'd also called her narcissistic, but she's less offended by that because she's relatively sure both that A: he was just repeating something Kurt said and B: he had no idea what the word actually meant.)

So she's definitely surprised when he starts talking to her, but she's willing to let bygones be bygones and at first it's very civil. He tells her about how things at Ohio State are going, apparently he's a Physical Education major and loves it, he makes a few references to what seems to be a semi-serious girlfriend, and then shares several funny and very cute stories about the Little League team he coaches.

It's mostly nice. She's remembering all of the reasons why she always thought he was so sweet, but it's also a little disturbing because she can't remember a single reason why she spent more than two years dating him.

When the conversation turns to her, things start to get a little more tense.

"So how's New York treating you? You a big star yet?"

He's smiling and the words are friendly and in fact, Mike and Matt had teased her with similar variations, but at the same time, his tone is a little..._off_.

"NYU's program is challenging, but fantastic. I've been working with some great people..." She starts talking about her classes, her summer internship, but he's looking down and frowning slightly, fiddling with the tab on his Coke can and eventually she trails off.

"So you two kept in touch, huh?" he says.

She looks at him blankly and he continues, "You and Puck, I mean..."

_In touch?_ In her head the filthy innuendo that Noah would let loose describing exactly how _in touch_ they've been pops up and she has to clamp her lips together to prevent it from slipping out. Luckily, Finn doesn't notice and he's already continuing. "I'm a little surprised to see you here is all."

"Noah is an old high school friend. Why wouldn't I be here?" she counters. Yes, _friends. _Friends that have seen each other naked. And maybe there's the potential for more than that, at least in her mind, but that is absolutely none of Finn's business.

"Yeah, it's funny though. It doesn't look like too many of his other friends showed up. Artie didn't make an appearance. Tina was only around for what? About five minutes? No Mercedes or Kurt. And look," he points to the remainder of the food still loaded on the table. "I don't see Santana here bringing cookies and he _fucked_ her."

"You did too," she flashes and an angry flush spreads across his face.

"You know why no one else is here? Because Puck is a shitty friend and if you make the mistake of hanging around him too much he's going to hurt you too!"

"That's a terrible thing to say!" she says indignantly. "Noah made _one_ mistake years ago and..."

"Jesus, Rachel. That is such _bullshit,_" he mutters and then he steps forward and grabs her arm. "Come on. I'll take you home."

"Finn, don't be ridiculous, I'm not going anywhere. And please let go, you're hurting me," she complains, but then his eyes flick up, over her shoulder, and if anything, he looks angrier.

She twists a little bit and Noah is standing in the kitchen doorway. His expression is ugly and his voice tight. "Let her go."

Finn's hand tightens around her wrist and she can't help letting out a squeak.

"Hudson, let her go or I swear I'm going to forget that this is my mother's house and fucking beat the crap out of you."

Rachel can feel all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prick up and possibly Finn feels it too because for whatever reason his grip loosens and she's able to jerk away from him. She takes a step back towards Noah, not touching, but close enough to, standing firmly and uncategorically between the two of them, best friends she'd always thought. Lately though, she's been finding out that she was wrong about a lot of things.

"Finn, you should leave," she says firmly and Finn looks embarrassed but mulish at the same time.

"I was leaving anyway. You should think about what I said, Rachel," he says and then jostles past Noah hard on his way out the door.

She grabs at Noah's arm as if to stop him from going for Finn, but he's cold and still under her hand, looking at her with his face some unidentifiable mixture of irritation and concern.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Of course. I'm so sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was cause a scene."

"Not your fault," he says shortly and then when she turns back to the food on the table he adds, "You can leave that. My aunt's almost done cleaning the linen closet and she'll just come down and redo it all anyway."

She'd met his aunt earlier in the afternoon, so she has to acknowledge that this is most likely true. "Well, unless there's anything else I can do to help, I guess I'll call Daddy."

"I can give you a ride home. If you want."

"All right," she says cautiously. He's still tense, but it doesn't seem at all unreasonable that he would welcome a chance to get out of the house for a few minutes.

(He smiles at her and her breath catches and suddenly that _'later,'_ is echoing through her brain.)

She gathers her belongings while he gets his keys and tells his mother where he's going and Rachel can hear her, "_Don't hurry back_!" all the way across the room, while his sister and aunt look on in interest.

Things are quiet in the car. She doesn't know what he's thinking, but she for one can't help remembering that the last time the two of them were alone together for an extended period of time, she was naked and those same hands gripping the steering wheel have explored every inch of her body, and she's _got_ to get a handle on this before she embarrasses herself.

"What did Hudson say?"

Ugh. That's actually a fairly effective distraction.

"Nothing worth repeating," she says and then when he misses the turn. "Noah, it's left on Kirkland."

"Not like I can't guess what he said. And yeah, I remember where your place is. You up for driving around for a while?"

She agrees and sends a quick text explaining the situation to her fathers although she's purposely vague about her current location and when she expects to be back home. Mostly because she doesn't have that information herself, but also because most of what they know about Noah is the (admittedly spotty) reputation he earned in high school and she doesn't want them to worry.

She's certainly not concerned, but a possibly a little surprised when he heads out on Highway 10 towards the resevoir. He drives past the public beach, past the fishing access where high school students go to make out at night and then he turns into a little gap in the trees that she's never seen before and picks his way carefully along a dirt track that only with a little imagination can she recognize as a road. He gets out once and pushes open a rusty gate before returning to the truck and driving a few hundred yards more to a small grassy clearing. Through the treeline ahead, she can see the glint of the setting sun reflecting on the water.

"Where are we?" she asks when he throws the truck into park.

He shrugs. "No place, really. Land used to belong to some old lady and when she died all her kids started fighting over what to do with it and shit, now it's probably her grandkids arguing. There used to be a house but it burned down five or six years ago. No one ever comes here."

She waits for more, like how he knows about this place or what they're doing there, but he lets out a breath and sinks down in his seat.

"Is this where you brought girls when you were in high school?" she asks impulsively, not because she wants to know (even back then, she avoided thinking of him with other girls), but because she's nervous and it's the first thing that comes into her head.

He scowls and she thinks maybe she's touched him on a sore spot and she opens her mouth to take it back or change the subject, but then he says sharply. "No one. I've never brought anyone here. Shit Rachel, if I just wanted to fuck, there's a million other places to go. Hell, you've probably been to a few with Finn. What do you think? Maybe we should compare notes."

After that she's not really interested in making an apology and her hand darts to the passenger door which absolutely yes, she recognizes as ridiculous because they're miles out of town, but old habits die hard. But before she gets the door open his hand snakes out and grabs her arm.

She doesn't say anything, but allows herself to be pulled back, saying a little stiffly, "I think I've had enough of driving around for today. Will you take me home?"

"Rach. Look, it was kind of a shitty thing to say. And yeah, I know it's stupid and unfair but sometimes it pisses me off." He's still gripping her, only now he's rubbing his thumb along the inside of her arm, applying a gentle traction to pull her closer.

"What's unfair?" she asks, a little unwillingly. (She's still sliding over towards him though. Stupid lack of control.)

"Hudson. That he got you for two years and I got you for like, a week."

"Oh," she says in a tiny voice. She swallows. "Well, you've got me right now."

"Yeah?" he asks breathlessly.

"You know you do."

He does have her, and she has to blink against it, the revelation hitting her like a searchlight on a dark night. She's been half in love with him for months.

Now what?

* * *

**A/N: Several people have asked me about Rachel's break-up with Finn and the fight between Finn and Puck. I just wanted to assure all of you that you will see that in the next chapter. And as always, thank you for reading and I'd love to know what you think! **


	9. A Steep Learning Curve

**A/N: Lots of flashbacks going on in this update. I hope they work for you and I'd love to hear what you think. And as always, thank you all so much!**

* * *

All right, so sometimes he_ is_ kind of an asshole.

When he lets loose with that crap about Finn, he's not even surprised. It's been burning on the edge of his tongue since he saw the two of them in the kitchen and for a split second he wants to puke or hit something because he doesn't know what Hudson's hand on her wrist means. And sure, he figures it out, but even after he kicks Hudson's ass out of the house he can still feel it, heavy and metallic, until the words pour out and he's managed to piss her off.

She's almost out the truck door before he can even start to wipe the stupid _jealous_ look off his face, and there's a moment of blind panic where he needs to do or say something _now_, and he's got nothing. And then, who knows, maybe it's some seriously fucked up message from the universe, but all his barely functioning brain can do is throw him three weeks back to the last time he saw Eli.

_It's the beginning of August and he's alone with his father. which he usually avoids at all costs. but after an hour or so of staring at his mother's tired face, he sends her home to get some sleep. And shit, if it makes her feel better to have someone sitting with a guy who's probably not going to wake up all night, he'll do it. Hell, it's the least he can do, considering he's only down for the weekend and has to head back to Michigan for a roofing job tomorrow. _

_He props his legs up on the end of the hospital bed, or hospice bed, or whatever. They try to make it homey, hide the monitors behind screens, put up curtains and hang pictures on the wall, but in the end, it's still just a place to die and he fucking hates it. Free WiFi is about the only thing that makes his visits here at all tolerable; he's got his laptop on his knees and he's smiling for what seems like the first time in days over Rachel's latest email. _

_"Is that the girl?" Eli's thin voice makes him jump and he meets his own eyes in a hollow face, the body with skin stretched tight over a shrunken frame. _

_"What girl?" he asks shortly, snapping the laptop shut. Eli doesn't get to talk about Rachel, _ever_. _

_"You know. The one your mother is always talking about."_

_Puck shrugs and busies himself straightening the older man's covers and holding up a cup of water so he can drink. _

_"Sounds like she's important. Noah, I wish...I should have..."_

_He cuts him off because _no, _not going to happen. "Don't even start..." He stops, closes his eyes momentarily and then with a massive effort, gentles his voice. "Dad. No offense, but the best,_ shit_, the_ only_ thing you ever taught me about women was how _not_ to treat them." _

_But at the same time, he's awkwardly patting Eli's arm and when Eli moves to take his hand, he lets him. _

_His father's eyes close and Puck thinks he's gone back to sleep when Eli speaks one more time. "That's probably good. That's something, anyway."_

And maybe it _is_ something, because at the moment at least, it's enough to tell him that he's being an idiot and he somehow manages to figure out something to say that gets her to stay.

Helps that it's true.

And then like she's shy or like she thinks she's crossed some invisible line where he's just going to bail, she says it. "_Well, you've got me right now_."

All sorts of alarm bells are ringing or maybe it's just the blood rushing in his ears because he wants exactly that and even the _'right now'_ (like now, but not later?) can't drown out the satisfied voice in his head that's crowing _'mine'._

Maybe he even says it out loud because she's giving a breathy little gasp, or maybe that's down to him kissing that spot behind her ear that makes her shudder and then he slides around, tongue swiping out to taste her strawberry lipgloss (he's missed that fucking lipgloss). And she's right there with him when he's opening her mouth with his and it feels overwhelming and fucking amazing at exactly the same time, just like it always does when she's around and he's got no idea what to do with it all.

Or actually, fuck that. He does obviously.

He slides over the last few inches towards her, until they're almost on top of one another and he's got one hand at the nape of her neck and one on her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek bone. It's still not close enough, not nearly, so he guides her knee over until she's straddling him. His hands travel to her hips, helping her grind against him a little (he's totally hard already), not like she needs any help and just the fucking friction is enough to send shockwaves all the way to the ends of his fingers and toes. Her head is thrown back, making it easy for him to kiss and lick and suck hard at her shoulder and her pulse point and shit, she's probably going to have something to say about that later, but right now it's just making her liquid and pliant.

He _needs _to be inside her.

She seems to agree.

He starts tracing patterns with his fingertips under the hem of her dress, skimming it up, watching inch after inch of those gorgeous legs exposed and then dancing higher on her inner thighs, teasing across her center, while she's making little choked-off sounds and rolling her hips towards him, trying to get him to touch her where she wants. Pushing up and away from him a few inches, she starts working on his zipper and he lifts up his hips and helps her shove them and his boxers down around his knees. And then it's his turn to groan when her soft, warm hand closes around his cock and starts a slow glide up and down until he's forehead to forehead with her, breathing hard, and they're both looking down, focused on the tangle of hands and bodies.

"Noah, do you have condoms?" she whispers urgently in his ear and he has to close his eyes for a second because he is absolutely going to fuck Rachel Berry in his truck and it's a stone-cold fact that that's somewhere in the top five on his lifetime achievement list.

"Glove compartment," he manages to choke out. While she's leaning over to grab one, he moves his hand to her panties and starts maneuvering them down and this part shouldn't hard, because yeah working in the limited space is kind of awkward, but still this isn't exactly his first time. Somehow though, there's a tightness in his chest and a hint of a tremor in his hands and for the first time he lets himself admit that it's been kind of fucked up week, hell, a fucked up summer.

And she makes it all better, makes it bearable, has for months and he doesn't know why. (Shut up you stupid fuck. You know why. _You know_.)

She's smoothing the condom on and then grasps him with a couple of quick pumps and it feels great, but he's got have more. (Of course he fucking does.)

_"Baby...Rachel...," _he groans, grasping her hips and lining her up and then (_fuck_!) pulling her down on top of him in one stroke.

And she's hot and she's tight and she's riding him and in some corner of his brain he should be worrying that he's pushing up into her too hard or gripping her so tightly that he'll leave a mark, but right now he doesn't care, anymore than he cares about her heel digging into his calf or her fingers clutching onto his shoulder, his bicep, nails digging in. All that, it's totally irrelevant to the sensation of being buried up to the hilt in her or to the pursuit what they're frantically chasing together.

She's babbling something into his neck and he hears something like "_God_," and "_Noah_," (damn right, that feels good) and he's got his fingers between her legs working her clit in gentle rhythm that's a contrast and a counterpoint to the desperation of their thrusts. He's knows she's close, reads the tell-tale tremble in her thighs, the way she's starting to clench around him. He could totally get her off now, push her over the edge just by saying the right words, some combination of filthy and sexy and practiced, but all he's got is her name, over and over again and it's all right, it's enough for both of them.

* * *

He's totally man enough to admit it, this part is good too, the part where he's got her sitting between his legs in the back of his pick-up, her back to his chest. And it's dark and quiet and he can't see her face which makes it easier when he tells her some shit about what this week's been like. (He has a feeling she knows most of it already, but whatever.)

"I like this," she says, lightly clasping one of his hands between her own. "You were always easy to talk to."

"We didn't talk much in high school."

"Sometimes we did," she counters.

"Not enough. You know. Things were always complicated with Finn." Could be a stupid fucking move, bringing up Hudson, only he wants to show her that she can talk about stuff without him being a complete shithead. You know, if she wants.

"We broke up, you know. In case you were wondering about the subtext to my conversation this afternoon with him."

"I sort of knew that," he says and slides a hand up her rib-cage, getting a little side-boob action. Because you know, _duh_.

She bats at his hand ineffectually, before leaning back into him and sighing. "I suppose what I mean is that it was an ugly break-up. Right before I left for NYU."

_He comes back at the end of the summer, just for a weekend before he drives out to freshman orientation at Maryland and what the hell is wrong with him? There's no fucking point to driving by Berry's house. Not when she left for New York yesterday._

"I heard something about it." He runs his tongue over the back of his lip, remembering the taste of blood. "Just the bare bones, though."

_He's packs his shit and he's got a couple hours to kill, so he heads over to Rutherford's to hang out and share a couple cold ones. But when he gets there, Matt meets him at the door, looking worried. "Hey man, maybe you should come back in an hour or so." _

_And then he hears Finn's voice from inside. "Is that Puckerman? Tell him to wait. He's gonna want to hear this." _

He clears his throat. "Wanna tell me about it?"

She hesitates, saying finally, "I think we both had these idealized versions of one another that we wanted the other to fit. I had our future all mapped out and so did he and it was disappointing for us both to realize that they didn't match."

It's not complete bullshit, more like an understatement, which he knows because he has first hand knowledge of what Hudson's version of _'disappointment'_ looked like.

_Finn comes out onto the stoop and he's not drunk, not anywhere near it but he definitely looks like he's been wrung out hard at some point in the last 24 hours. And he looks pissed. Really fucking pissed. _

_"You should be happy about this, fucking thrilled, probably. Rachel and I broke up. Figured it wouldn't be long until I saw you sniffing around."_

_There's an iron band around his chest that's making it hard to breath (feels like he's taken a hit already), but whatever, Puck's got better shit to do than giving Hudson the fight he seems to be angling for._

She's linking her fingers with his and squeezing so tightly that if her hands weren't like the size of a ten year old's, shit, it might hurt. "And that night, some things were said in the heat of the moment that I'm sure he didn't mean and probably I didn't come off all that well either."

_"Left it a little late though, didn't you? She gone, she's fucking left..."_

_As he turns to go he can see Matt in the background, tugging at Finn's sleeve, telling him to shut up, but Finn either won't or can't. "Gonna be a big star. Selfish fucking bitch."_

_And that pretty much tears it. He turns back, and fuck, it's straight into Hudson's fist, which shouldn't be a surprise since it's not the first time the bastard has sucker punched him._ _But this time, he's hitting back and it's a little because since the two of them have been together he hasn't come near her. Hell, he's barely said a word to her. But mostly it's because Hudson's right, it's all too late. Why didn't this happen last year, hell last month? Now, she's gone._

She's so quiet now, he has to angle his head in to hear her voice. "I think what he wanted...he just...he just wanted me to _stay_. He brought me on a tour of OSU _twice_ that summer. Finally he told me to choose and when I asked him if he wanted me to give up my dreams, he said that I was his dream. He asked me why he wasn't enough."

_He's screaming back at Finn. "This is all on you, man! I never touched her. I never said a word to her that you couldn't have heard! But I'll tell you this. You were an idiot to think you could keep her here and an asshole for even trying!"_

"Noah, do you think I'm horrible?"

"No baby, I don't." He rubs her shoulder comfortingly with the hand she's not holding.

They're both silent for a while after that, and it's kind of awesome how it's not awkward or anything. Unfortunately, he knows he's got to take her back home soon. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that her fathers aren't really going to be on board with her '_consoling_' a friend all night. (Never mind that it's the best kind of consolation there is. Practically a mitzvah.)

Seriously, it fucking sucks that every time he's seen her in the last year, there's this stupid built-in time limit, and no guarantee that it isn't going to be years until he sees her again. Total bullshit, right?

(It's all translating in his head into _man the fuck up_.)

"Rach. I want to see you again. And I don't want to have to piss you off or have someone die to do it."

She twists, tilts her heads at him. "You do?" she says with this little hopeful note in her voice and it makes his grip on her tighten.

"_Yeah,"_ he says, not trusting his voice to anything else.

"Well," she replies and she's practically _purring_, "we'll have to make that happen then, won't we."

And she pulls his head down for a fucking hot kiss (only it's kind of ridiculous too, because neither of them can stop grinning).

* * *

So that's settled.

Only it's not. Not really. Because when they start comparing their semester schedules it becomes clear that 'again' isn't going to happen until winter break, which obviously sucks. They also aren't leaving with any sort of labels. Whatever. Probably safer for both of them anyway. (A tiny part of him wonder what that means though, since clearly it had been important to her to lock Hudson and that St. Douche kid down.)

When he finally drops her off, he doubts she's going to mention him to her fathers in any sort of detail (in his experience that's a good thing) and he sure as hell isn't going to repeat her name to his mother. Crazy woman probably knows already though, Rachel's been on her radar since, like, birth.

Later that night, he's sitting around doing nothing, just staring at his calendar, which doesn't do shit to make four months go by faster.

What _will _make four months go by faster? He's on the road on his way back to Maryland when he finds her panties stuffed beneath the seat. She's still got his tee-shirt; he got her to admit she wears it to bed sometimes and as simple as that image is, it's total food for the spank-bank. And these? Even better. Oh, yeah. He is _so_ keeping these.)

* * *

The semester starts off good. He gets all the classes he wants, plus he's finally got a place off campus with a couple of friends. Animal House it ain't, they're all seniors and don't really have the time to screw around. Shit, they'll go to the bars and have a few, they even throw a party for game seven of the World Series (not that he gives a shit, the fucking Indians were out of it in August). But mostly it's just work and study and every few nights he'll spend a couple hours on the phone with Rachel.

It's not really until Halloween that it's driven home that he hasn't gotten laid _since_ Rachel. (Actually also for that entire summer as well, but he had sort of assumed that's because the only girl hanging around the construction crew was Jeff's sister and you don't fuck with the sister of someone who habitually carries a nail gun.)

He's been dragged off to some party because one of his roommates has a thing going with the chick who's throwing it, and free beer is free beer as long as he doesn't have to wear a some stupid costume. Of course the bastard disappears with his girl within the first five minutes. And ten minutes after that he's surrounded by a slutty nurse, a slutty cheerleader (which after three years of on-again, off-again with San, he's sort of over) and a slutty school girl. And they're all making it clear that he can go home with whatever combination of them he chooses.

So shit, whatever this thing is with Rachel is, it hasn't really changed him. He's not a saint and he's sure as hell not some cardboard cut-out. He's still the guy who does first and thinks later. Still the guy who does what he wants when he wants. And what he wants to do right now is call Rachel because she's probably back from the concert she was singing at and then see if he can get her to take her clothes off over the phone for him again.

So, you know, that's what he does.

(On his way out, he does ask the school girl where she got her costume from though. Just for future reference.)

* * *

He's been back home for a week, so looking back, he's kind of surprised his mother waited this long to bring her up.

"You look antsy."

He rolls his eyes. "Ma, I'm fine. I don't look antsy."

"You've barely touched your dinner. Don't you like your mother's cooking anymore?"

"It's good. No one heats up frozen lasagna like you."

She flicks his ear. "Smart mouth. You know, I ran into the Berrys at the supermarket. Apparently Rachel got back today."

"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know. You got something to say?"

"No, no. "

Then, three minutes later: "It's just that you mentioned that you were going out tonight."

"Mmm."

"So if you happen to see Rachel at any point while you're out, be sure to give her my best."

Like he said. Woman is totally bat-shit crazy. (She also reads him like a book.)

But really, is he twenty-two or is he twelve?

The feeling only intensifies thirty minutes later when he's standing on Rachel's doorstep with her dad staring at him through a partially opened door looking like A: he's never seen Puck before in his life, and B: he'd like to keep it that way.

He manages not to shift his weight uncomfortably. "Is Rachel at home?"

Dude doesn't blink. "Is she expecting you?"

Definitely, if a text reading _'can you come over right now_?' means she _expects_ him to commit three minor traffic violations in order to arrive in under ten minutes.

But he doesn't have to say anything because she's suddenly in the doorway with her daddy trailing after her. "This conversation isn't over young lady! Dad and I will be back from dinner in two hours and then we'll all sit down and try and talk this mess through."

"I think you've made your point very clear," she says with just a hint of irritation. "Daddy, Dad, you remember Noah, don't you?" she continues and Puck only has time to wave (Dad still doesn't look impressed) before she's grabbing his forearm and dragging him upstairs and into her room.

She flops down on the bed and lets out a little scream of frustration. He's on the bed next to her in a second asking softly, "Hey, what's wrong?" and wrapping an arm around her.

"It's not what's wrong, it's what's _right_, but they just refuse to see it!" she fumes. "Remember how I told you about the call from that production company?"

"Yeah, you met one of the partners during your internship, right?"

"Exactly! Well, she attended the fall senior showcase and the long and short of it is that they've offered me a small part in the revival of _A Chorus Line_! ON BROADWAY Noah!"

And then he's hugging her so tight he actually pulls her off the bed and swings her around. "Holy shit baby! That's amazing!" He plants a few kisses on her and that turns into a few more, but something is slowly working it's way through his brain. "Wait," he says, (part of him can't believe he's pulling away), "I'm not seeing the problem here."

Two red spots are burning high on her cheekbones. "Rehearsals start in January, Noah. This is a full-time commitment."

"Oh fuck," he says heavily, "You aren't going to be able to finish your last semester at NYU."

"Not right away," she says passionately, "but school will always be there. And I readily admit that Tricia isn't a huge role, and yes, she does get cut after the first number, but Noah, I get a solo. True, it's only three lines, but it's a _solo_. This is a huge deal and they don't understand."

"But you're going to do it? You did take the part, right?"

"Almost before she finished speaking," she admits.

"Well fuck, Rach, this is what you were born to do. And when you get your chance, you've got to grab it with both hands." (Fine, don't hit him over the head with it. It hasn't escaped his attention that there's a lesson somewhere in there for him too.)

Too much to think about right now, but he's left with a weird urge to try and solve her problems. Even so, he can't believe he's about to suggest this: "You, uh...you want me to talk to your dads?"

"That means a lot to me Noah. I'm more grateful for your support than I can say, but I can't think any purpose would be served by that. At some point, they'll have to bow to the inevitable. I just hope it doesn't take too long."

She looks up at him, flirts really, through her eyelashes and then she wets her lip with her tongue and yeah, just like that he's hard. "Right now I was thinking...Noah, I don't want you to think that my appreciation for you is based solely on your physical attributes..." She traces one hand along his bicep.

He's breathing a little harder. "But you want me to take your mind off it all?" He is so up for that. (Ha!)

Later, when the two of them are collapsed together in a sweaty heap on her bed, he'd be embarrassed about how quickly it goes down, but come on, it's not like it's surprising; months with just his hand for company are going to have an effect. And _completely_ obviously she gets off, because he doesn't ever leave a girl hanging, much less his girl.

And you know, it kind of works out, because they end up having just enough time before her dads get home for him to learn something worth knowing. (You can bet your ass he pays attention to his education when it happens in the context of her pressing him up against her bedroom door and then sliding to her knees in front of him.)

Turns out _that thing_ Hudson let slip in the locker room senior year, the one Puck broke Wilson's collarbone for in a scrimmage because the asshole wouldn't stop asking about it? Totally and mind-blowingly true. He is just never, _never_ going to let this girl go. (And just so you know, he's virtually certain that only about 50% of that statement is coming from his dick.)


	10. Find Your Way To Me

**A/N: Thank you so much for your interest in this story! Your reviews and alerts and favorites are much appreciated!**

* * *

"Holy _fucking_ fuck Rachel!"

Some might quibble with that as a substitute for good morning but she's not one of them.

After all, she can admit to it. She was kind of hoping for that reaction when she got dressed this morning, even as she'd breezily explained '_laundry day'_ to her fathers when she grabbed the keys. Dad was still choking on his coffee as she shut the door behind her.

And now standing on his doorstep at 8:30 in the morning, she can say with certainty that Noah _definitely_ remembers the pink plaid skirt. Absolutely worth braving the freezing temperatures (especially since it's looking more and more like he's planning on warming her up).

In fact, this might even be a little more than what she was anticipating, because he yanks her in the front door and backs her up against it, and his hands are roaming all over her body and his mouth is nibbling a damp trail along the neckline of her white blouse. Not that she has any problem with this course of action _per se_, quite the contrary in fact. But as she struggles to peep up over his shoulder, she's _really_ hoping not to meet Mrs. Puckerman's shocked gaze.

"Noah," she asks breathlessly, "where's your mother?"

"Hmmm?" he rumbles against her skin. "Yeah, already at work babe." One hand moves to cup her ass and the other finds a sliver of skin in the gap between skirt and blouse.

"Sarah?"

"Uhm. _Shit._ Upstairs, maybe?" He sighs, pulls away slightly, re-buttons the top two buttons of her blouse (when did that happen?) and smooths her skirt back down. "Sorry, but that shit is _fucking_ hot. Like high school all over again."

"Sorry?" She looks at him quizzically and he laughs and winks.

"Want something to eat? I'm making breakfast." he asks and she smiles and accepts. He gestures to a chair and she watches him move deftly through the kitchen, popping bread into the toaster, turning the kettle on and yes, turning the bacon in the pan on the stove.

"Does your mother know about that?"

He grins. "Not exactly babe, but there's way too much sweet and sour pork consumed in this house for her to have much of a leg to stand on."

Before long, she's drinking tea and nibbling on toast and smiling down at the table as he opens his mouth impossibly wide to stuff in a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich. She hardly ever allows herself to think this way, but there's something very domestic about this whole scene and she likes it enormously. The wild-eyed romantic in her thinks that this is _exactly_ what it could be like, in a tiny apartment in the East Village or maybe someday a brownstone in Cobble Hill. Her inner pragmatist reminds her that she's not even really officially his girlfriend.

It's not that she never thinks about it, she does. A lot. And at some point, she wants to discuss that but it's just that _immediate_ future seems so clouded. She's got work (_work_!) and he's got school and they're living hundreds of miles away. And honestly, at this point, she's not sure if it's a useful distinction. She may lack the proper vocabulary, but she's sure that _this_, this connection that they've got between them is bigger than that.

Sarah bursts into the room. "There better some bacon left, Noah!" Then, spotting Rachel: "Yes! Maybe Mom will finally shut up!"

Rachel looks quizzically at Noah, but he's busy clearing the plates. The back of his neck looks suspiciously red however.

Stealing the last few pieces from the pan, Sarah plunks down in a chair and smiles brightly. "So, Rachel. Let's discuss my trip to New York. You practically promised and I have time off from school coming up!"

Now it's Rachel's turn to pinken as Noah looks at her in surprise. She knew that was going to come back to bite her. She smiles weakly and says a few words like _'possibly'_ and _'your mother...'_

Sarah snorts. "Please. Like my mother would say no to you." A car horn sounds. "That's Becky's mom. We're headed to the mall. Just think about it, okay?"

With Sarah out the door, Rachel brings her mug over to the sink to rinse it out. Standing next to him, she's very aware of his muscled form and the fact that they're now alone in the house and it's ridiculous, because she should be used to the effect he has on her by now, but she can't breath properly. Noah's arms sneak around her waist and his lips travel along the back of her neck and she shivers and leans back into him. He breathes something into her ear, but she can't have heard that correctly so she turns in his grip and his eyes are so dark, so hot, so _promising_ that her knees almost buckle.

"What did you say?" she asks, pressing her thighs together to try and alleviate the ache that's rapidly building at her center. (It's _really_ not helping.)

His hands travel to her ass, pulling her in tight, but his gaze is still holding her pinned to the spot.

"I said that I want to take you to my room and fuck you while you're wearing just that skirt," he says, his voice low.

_Oh God._ That's what she thought he'd said. The tiny part of her brain that isn't responding enthusiastically to his kiss is grateful that he's carrying her upstairs. She's almost certain her legs aren't functioning.

* * *

In the end, she spends a just over a week in Lima, nine days precisely before she has to go back to New York, to the mess of taking a leave of absence from NYU, and finding a place to live, and back also to the lights and the noise and the thrill of putting her feet on the first rung of the ladder she's been working towards for years.

She ends up spending a lot of that time at the Puckerman's house. In part it's because her fathers aren't home much-in fact the only reason they are all home for the holiday season this year instead of at her Bubbe's house in Tampa is because they're preparing for a big revision in inheritance law that takes effect in the new year. (Berry, Glick & Berry, Certified Financial Planners are nothing if not prepared at all times.) But mostly it's because when they are home, they are still in turns upset or worse, trying to put a brave face on the situation, and it's breaking her heart a little.

She's not afraid that they'll throw her out of the house or present her will a bill for three and a half years worth of college tuition or anything ridiculous like that. No matter how angry they sometimes seem, they would never do that.

They love her, they tell her how much they care every time they bring it up, a single conversation on constant repeat: another opportunity will come along, it's not worth throwing her education away for, and perhaps their greatest fear, the thing that has them pushing her towards teaching as firmly as they can, the show could fold next week. They bring order to the world through logic and numbers and the fulfillment of completable tasks, and the idea that a person could expend so much time and effort and energy without a guaranteed return makes them extremely nervous.

This was never their dream for her and in a million subtle and not-so-subtle ways, they let her know it. So yes, a small part of her is looking for an escape from the completely unfamiliar territory of disappointing her parents.

But mostly of course, she simply likes it at Noah's house. There's always a lot of action. Whenever she's home, Sarah usually seems to have at least three friends over, all giggling in her bedroom. And Mike and Matt cycle through frequently and making casual conversation, while at the same time expressing no surprise that her customary seat is perched on Noah's leg. To be honest, no one, including Miriam, seems all that shocked. Wildly, inappropriately happy in Mrs. Puckerman's case, but not shocked. She likes it best though, when it's just the two of them and they retreat into his room behind his locked bedroom door and she teases him into playing his guitar for her (and he teases her in other ways).

Like anything else, it's not entirely perfect.

On occasion their tastes don't mesh completely.

"So we've spent two hours watching a movie about a man whose only interests seem to be marijuana, white russians and bowling?"

"It's actually a lot funnier if you're stoned, baby."

"Noah, I can _never_ get those two hours back."

Sometimes he has no idea what she's talking about. And the other way around.

"Totally interesting, babe."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Rach, you're topless. So you could be reciting Roy Halladay's lifetime stats and I'd still be distracted."

"Who?"

"Roy Halladay. Pitcher. Actually, never mind. Right now, why don't you slide over this way a little and I'll..._yeah, like that_."

Once they fight. Really fight, with shouting and her storming out of the house.

It's about something stupid that shouldn't even have been an argument to begin with. When she's had some time to think about it, she's almost certain that it becomes one only because she's leaving in two days and they're both already on edge.

Honestly, she's only trying to help on Saturday night when she encourages him to go have a 'boy's night' with Matt and Mike. She knows that they do that a lot during their vacations because Mike has already shared several stories with her, including one from last month that includes a conversation between Noah and the Rutherford's defrosting Thanksgiving Day turkey. Noah rolls his eyes at the two of them and mumbles, "Shit, Chang, you're a worse gossip than Hummel."

It sounds fun really, although not her thing; watching sports, staying up late playing video games, drinking beer and she thinks the turkey story speaks for itself, probably indulging in the occasional mild substance abuse. She'd guess that they talk about girls, although possibly not in terms that she'd recognize or appreciate if she did recognize them. (That said, she would pay top dollar to know what, if anything, Noah has said about her.)

And Mike is leaving tomorrow, so it's their last chance and as much as she wants to spend every second she can with him, she also doesn't want him to miss out on _anything_.

So she encourages him, only it's really more like pushing him (it's an aspect of her personality that she's still working on). And he gets quiet and then sullen before barking at her something about how she's trying to get rid of him, and she gets offended, and makes several acid comments about how she's only trying to be sensitive to his needs. He gives her a look that she interprets as meaning that the only needs he wants her help with are the ones that come up when he's naked and it goes rapidly downhill from there.

She's home and facedown on her bedspread crying before she really knows what happened.

Forty-five minutes later, she's trying and failing to pull herself back together when a muffled _thud_ at the window makes her look up, startled. There's another, with a flash of white and when she gets up and looks out, there he is in her front yard, throwing snowballs at her window. Without a coat on.

She flies down the stairs and wrenches the door open, shivering as a blast of cold air hits her and then his arms are wrapped around her (she flinches a little when he touches her because his hands are so cold and then presses closer to warm him up). She stands on tiptoe whispering _'I'm sorry'_ into his ear and he's murmurs _'me too'_ along her hairline and somehow the front door gets closed and they end up on the couch together and wrapped up in one another, not even kissing, just staying as close as they can.

Finally, she says quietly, "Noah, I just don't want to come between you and your friends." Unspoken is the '_again_' but she knows he hears it.

He rubs her wrist. "I know, babe." He hesitates, "I get it. But you've got to let me look out for myself. I know what I want."

And she can feel the tears still pricking behind her eyelids and her voice is caught in her throat. Because the way his arms are tightening around her, pulling her up against his chest, it feels like he's saying that it's _her_. She's what he wants.

She inhales his scent, laundry detergent and mint gum and aftershave, and the whole thing, the emotional response it evokes, it's amazing, but it's also making her crazy, making her pulse race; she can feel it _everywhere_ and she wants to make him respond in exactly the same way. So she pushes herself up and when he frowns (pouts) at her, she takes the hem of her shirt and pulls it slowly, teasingly, over her head and off.

His mouth curls into a slow smirk and his eyes are so dark, so appreciative, it makes her weak, but when he reaches for her, she shakes her head at him and takes a step back. "Wait. Relax. We've got plenty of time. Dad and Daddy won't be back for hours."

He lets out a breath and then leans back into the sofa, his legs falling open and it's like a magnetic attraction, she can't tear her eyes away from the outline of his erection rising up along his leg or from his hand moving to brush along the length of it through the fabric of his jeans. She moves her own hands blindly to the zip of her skirt, and possibly it's with less than her usual grace, but it falls away anyway and she's standing in front of him in just her underthings.

She relishes his groan, relishes it even more when he reaches for the button to undo his jeans and then drags down the zipper to let his erection spring free (she loves the days when he doesn't wear underwear). But seeing him, she's at a bit of a standstill, various scenarios racing though her head, all promising pleasure. She wants..._everything_. She wants to take him in her mouth, she wants to ride him slow, _so slow_, until she's got him hot and begging against her skin, she wants him to throw her down on the sofa and pound into her until his name pours out of her like music, and it's all on fast-forward until she's almost dizzy with thinking about it.

It's almost a shock when he speaks, just the sound of it breaking her reverie, all mixed in with the hoarseness of his voice, the words direct, but the tone pleading. "_Touch yourself._ Touch yourself for me."

_Oh._ She's blushing all over, literally all over, heat spreading across her like a wave. She can't deny him this, not with his eyes on her, not with the wetness pooling between her legs telling her that she wants it too. But how? With Noah _watching_? This isn't a performance that she's ever thought about giving. Her tongue swipes out against her lips nervously, but his hiss of indrawn breath gives her confidence. She reaches back and unhooks her bra, letting it drop to the floor, running her fingers along her sides, then brushing against her nipples, lightly tweaking them.

"A little more," he begs, "harder. Like it's me. Like it's my hands on you."

At the same time, he's got his..._his cock_ in his hand stroking, and seeing that, she suddenly feels it, part fantasy and part memory, she's picturing Noah's long, insanely talented fingers pinching and rubbing the stiffening peaks.

"_Noah...,"_ and at another time her moan might be embarrassing, but she's past that, her eyes falling shut as one hand slides down without volition to dip inside her soaked panties.

"Yeah," he whispers, "Like that baby. Touch your pussy for me. _So pretty._ Are you wet? Wet for me like I'm hard for you? Tell me."

"Yes, _yes...Noah_." Her eyes are still squeezed tight as her index finger stutters along her clit. And then she feels his hands on her, hot and sure, and she leans into him, craving his touch, but he simply presses a quick kiss to her hip and tugs her underwear down.

"I wanna see you, Rachel. Every fucking inch."

Her eyes fly open when she feels him grasp her right leg, guide it up on the coffee table and maybe it's the sensation of being completely open for him, or maybe it's the almost electric jolts that her hand, still skimming between her legs, produces, but she's trembling and he soothes her, cooing almost, "_Beautiful._ So good. Will you do it for me? Slide a finger inside?"

She nods, unable to speak, and slips one finger, and then a second into her wet depths, sliding in and out slowly, arching her back and canting her hips to get little deeper. He's leaning towards her, his breath hot on her thigh, one hand still on her hip to balance her and his fingers are biting in, but she barely notices. All she knows is that his gaze is burning her up from the inside and she increases the tempo, pushing herself as hard as she can towards some kind of relief (even if it's like trying to put out a fire with gasoline), but she recognizes even through the familiar curl of want in her belly that it's not going to be enough.

"Noah," she cries out, "I just can't...I need you!"

"Fuck baby, _anything,_ anything you want. Just tell me," he gasps.

"I want your mouth. And, _oh_, your fingers!"

In an instant, his tongue is on her, licking several broad strokes before dancing along her slit and at the same time he curls two fingers inside her, the depth and the pressure exactly what she was hungering for. She's close...she's, _oh fuck!_ And it's the words escaping her, or that he knows every line of her body, but just then he scissors his fingers and at the same time, applies a gentle sucking pressure to her clit and she breaks around him and grasps the back of his head, his shoulder, almost sobbing her release.

She's still coming down from it, still feeling the occasional ripple wash through her, when he kisses her softly, cupping her face in his hands, his tongue curling delicately with hers. His fingertips skim down her body, cupping her ass and pressing her up and against him, his erection thick and hard against her belly.

"Rachel, I've got to...babe...I can't wait...need you _now_." His voice is hoarse and his hands are on her body, turning her and gently pushing her into position, bending her over the padded arm of the sofa. She's vaguely surprised that she can move at all, given her current state of bonelessnes, but then she looks over her shoulder at him and he's so beautiful she aches with it. _Everything,_ his mouth, his body, the way he is with her, she can't get enough of him. And he's right behind her, shirt gone, his jeans bunched at his knees, smoothing a condom on.

He curls around her, so warm, and slides an arm under her hips, lining her her up and then he's buried inside her. He's stretching her, filling her up completely, the angle perfect, and she braces herself and then arches back to meet his thrusts, soft sounds falling from her lips. And when he finds her sensitive nub, brushing it in time with his movements, she's crying out, the note ringing clear and true.

"_Baby_," he breathes along her shoulder blade, rocking against her and the friction is _amazing _and she's spilling into another orgasm before she even knows it's there. With a few more deep thrusts he's losing his rhythm, motions jerky and uncoordinated, and then she feels him even through the latex, pulsing inside her as he comes. The sound of the two of them, breathing hard out into the room, and the dull thud of her heartbeat is _loud_ in her ears, and his weight pressing her into the crushed velvet of the sofa is almost painful, but he's nuzzling her neck, and whispering sweet, nonsensical words into her ear and she doesn't see the necessity of moving at all. _Ever._

But they have to, of course. He withdraws carefully and rolls them down onto the floor and pushes her sweaty hair out of her face. Kissing a line along his collarbone, she tucks herself into his side for a minute before he gets up to dispose of the condom. By the time he gets back, she's got the clothes picked up. (Finding his shirt takes some time...how did it end up on the other side of the room? Luckily, her panties are easier to locate; she only has to retrieve them from the back pocket of his jeans.)

She smiles up at him. "Want to go upstairs?"

He grins right back. "Hold that thought, baby. I gotta go move my truck."

"Leave it," she says, lacing her fingers with his and tugging him towards the stairs.

"Babe, I'm parked right in front. Your dads are going to be back soon and to be honest, they doesn't like me all that much as it is. I really don't think they're going to appreciate knowing for sure that I'm, like, defiling you."

She shrugs. "I'm twenty-two years old. I'm pretty sure that they've got some idea of what's been going on." And she can't help it, the way her voice goes all soft, even _thinking_ about the next words she's going to say. She'd like to try for cool and casual, but it's _impossible_. Since, of course, she's _completely_ in love with him.

"Besides, Noah, maybe they should get used to it."

* * *

She wakes up by degrees, first only aware of warmth and contentment, then only slowly realizing that the happiness and the _good_ burn in her muscles is largely owing to him, the man wrapped around her, his head resting on the pillow behind her. She stretches cautiously, not wanting to disturb him, but he groans and pulls her in a little tighter and she giggles, because he slides one hand up her ribcage and then he's cupping her breast _again_.

Possibly it's just his default mode.

"Morning," he mumbles into her neck, and she shivers as his callused fingertips brushes over her nipple.

She's about to arch back and show him exactly what kind of morning it could be when a knock on her bedroom door shocks her into immobility.

Daddy's voice sounds through the door. "Rachel? Sweetie? Are you up?"

"_No_, not quite Daddy," she squeaks, all thoughts of being twenty-two and a grown woman momentarily forgotten. She reaches back to grab Noah's arm, but there's only empty space and a thud as he hits the floor on the far side of the bed.

"Dad went to the bagel store this morning and I bought that tofu cream cheese you like while I was at the grocery store yesterday. I...I know things have been difficult recently, but come have breakfast with us princess."

Where the _hell_ are her clothes? "Of course, Daddy," she says distractedly, "I just need to..." _What?_ Get dressed? Try and sneak her _whatever he is_ down the trellis? Get a quickie in? (Lord help her, he's rubbing off on her.)

There's a short pause. Then: "And of course, Noah's welcome to eat with us as well."

She hears a snort from the floor and to be fair, it _is_ funny, so she tells Daddy that they'll be down in a few minutes and then crawls over to the side of the bed to look down at him. He's stretched out along the floor with his hands propped behind his head, and a smirk on his handsome face.

Please. He can try for _unconcerned_ all he likes. The fact that he managed to get fully dressed in under two minutes says it all.

Breakfast, perhaps inevitably, is a little awkward. Dad looks more resigned than delighted to see Noah and even Daddy's smile becomes a little more forced when he sees the hickey, which, all evidence to the contrary, she _does not_ remember leaving just under Noah's left ear.

The conversation flows reasonably well, though. They talk about the weather for a while and then her fathers ask after Noah's mother and sister and Noah tells them about Sarah's plan to try out for Glee next year. (She and Sarah planned and rehearsed her audition piece extensively this week.) But Noah's not making it easy for her. She keeps losing her place in the conversation because he's allowing his knee to loll against hers under the table, and she's nearly certain that the way his arm brushed against her breast when he was reaching for the juice was no accident.

Anyone with a pulse would find it distracting.

So she doesn't really remember when the conversation turns to Noah's college experiences. He talks briefly about his major and a few of his classes and then lets it fall casually that he made the Dean's List last semester.

Rachel stares at him indignantly and before she can stop herself, she kicks him under the table. "You didn't tell me that!"

"Ouch!" he yelps, glaring at her and rubbing his ankle, "Didn't I tell you? It's not that big a deal."

She's about to open her mouth to assure him that it's a very big deal, when Dad beats her to the punch.

"On the contrary, Noah. It's an incredibly important. Your educational attainments are the best predictor of future success. I only wish that Rachel would..." He trails off, looking stricken.

All the air in the room is immediately heavy with tension and Rachel dabs at her lips with her napkin, eyes wide, trying to hold back the stupid tears that are trying to form. It's just that this, the disappointment in his voice and also in Daddy's eyes, it still catches her off guard a little.

Daddy says "Sweetie...," but it's a shock to all of them when Noah interrupts.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe it is a big deal. I worked damn hard for those grades, and if you had really known me at all in high school, you'd probably be shocked as hell. I didn't take anything seriously back then, least of all, myself. Rachel did, though. Did you know she helped me get into college?"

Both her fathers look up at her in surprise and she feels Noah reach for her hand under the table, but he's not meeting her eyes, instead, staring down at the table.

"And that?" he continues, "It made me start thinking that if she thought I was worth something, then I was. Because Rachel is the smartest, hardest-working and most determined person I know. If she thought that ambition, or shit, even dreams, were worth having, then they were."

He glances at her then, his eyes warm as she smiles tremulously at him. "I probably shouldn't be saying anything, and Rachel's probably going to kill me, but you guys raised her like that. You know, to be the kind of person who does amazing things. So you should probably trust her to do that."

There's a long pause and he's looking down at his plate again, and squeezing her hand so tight it almost hurts. Rachel just squeezes back.

"You're right, of course," Dad says quietly. "Thank you for reminding us of that."

Daddy holds out his arms and Noah gives her a little push and she stumbles into them. Dad comes around and wraps his arms around them both. For a few minutes, it gets a little teary, and from the corner of her eye, she sees Noah disappear into the kitchen.

After the hugs and some conversation and most of all, the assurances that she's _not_ a disappointment, (the ones that even with all her confidence, she's been dying to hear) she excuses herself and goes to find him. He's stacking plates in the dishwasher and wiping down the countertops and she watches him for a minute. _Noah,_ who somehow has comprehensively secured himself a place in her life and may not even know it.

He looks at her cautiously. "You good?"

She nods quickly because she doesn't trust her own voice, and walks over to him, taking his face in her hands. When she kisses him, she tries to pour out all the happiness and thanks, and yes, _love_, that she's feeling into it, because she knows he'll understand that better than any words that she could come up with right now. His hands come up to loosely clasp her wrists and when the kiss ends with them both breathless, they stay close for a minute, eyes closed, forehead to forehead, until he takes a deep breath and pulls back, dropping a quick kiss on the crown of her head.

"I should go, baby. It's almost 11:00 and I promised my mom I'd spend some time with her and Sarah today."

She smiles. "I need to spend some time with my Dads too. They want to go through apartment listings with me and then we're going to do some budgeting!"

"Sounds like fun!" he teases. "But tonight's your last night, so we're going out. I'm taking you to dinner and not Breadsticks either. Someplace nice."

"Like a date?" she asks, biting her lip to hold in a giggle.

"Hell yeah," he replies, "Our first real date."

Which, she supposes, it is really. Their relationship in high school was big on making out and short on most everything else. And while they've spent most of the last week attached at the hip, they haven't actually gone anywhere but his house or hers.

_A real date._ She likes the sound of that.

* * *

**A/N: Getting close to the end now. I hope you enjoyed this segment and I'd love to know what you think. **


	11. Everything

**A/N: Final chapter of BPS! Thank you all so much for reading and your reviews and favorites. I hope you find this last installment satisfying and as always, I appreciate the feedback. **

* * *

A quick staccato sounds on his bedroom door and he can't helping rolling his eyes for a second before he calls out, "Yeah Ma, what is it now?"

She's been driving him fucking crazy all afternoon. It's his own stupid fault; he'd used the words 'date' and 'Rachel' in the same sentence which apparently she heard as 'Rachel' and 'getting married and immediately setting to work making me some Jewish grandbabies.' And no, he's not even going to comment on the terrifying thought that that may not be the worst idea in the entire world. 'Cause, you know, first he really needs to get Rachel's cute little ass on lock-down.

Not that he's worried; she's made it totally clear that he's the best she's ever had. Most recently, last night when he doubled her up so hard, she told him she actually saw stars. Shit, it took him at least fifteen minutes to be able to move a muscle again after that, but it was _totally _worth it. Honestly though, he doesn't even need to be a sex-addict about it. She's pretty amazing in the sack, just like he always knew she would be, but this is more. Truth is, the two of them, they're good together, even when all it is is talking about stuff and hanging out and spending time together.

He likes that. He wants more of it.

But that's kind of the problem-the spending time together crap. She'll be in New York and he's got at least another six months in Maryland and as much as he'd like to assume that all the actors and shit that she's going to meet are going to be stupid pretty boys or, even better, batting for the other team, he knows it isn't true.

She's this tiny little package of crazy perfection and he already knows she gets way more appreciation for that in New York than she did in Lima and the thought of her sharing that with anyone else makes him twitch, so yeah, at this point, he's pretty willing to do whatever it takes to prevent that from happening. The whole date thing is part of the plan that he came up with yesterday while freezing his balls off in the parking lot of the 7-11 on the way to her house. (Fuck you. He does some of his best thinking with a slushie in hand.)

And so yeah, the plan consists of A: taking her out and B: getting her to agree that dating him long-distance over Skype is way preferable to having her choice of a city full of rich, eligible jackasses who don't have a clue how to appreciate her. There's some other stuff too, that he scrawled on the back of an old lumber invoice (all of a sudden, he's strangely reluctant to wing it) but those are the main points.

Admittedly he didn't realize that listening to his mother freak out for three consecutive hours would be part of what it takes to get this thing done. Mostly it's been pretty harmless. She's mentioned the new Italian place, (helpful), reminded him not to act like a jerk in front of her fathers (_so_ taken care of, the taller one, Dad, _hugged_ him on the way out this morning) and confiscated his condom supply (just kidding on that last one, he's pretty sure she doesn't know where he keeps them).

But here she is again for the millionth time, walking in and holding up a freshly ironed shirt. Crap, he didn't even know they _had_ an iron. "Thanks Ma. You didn't have to do that."

"Nonsense Noah. A man should look like he takes some pride in his appearance. _You want to look nice for your evening with Rachel, don't you_?"

Seriously, she's starting to reach a pitch that's going to have every mutt in the neighborhood howling in about three minutes.

To calm her down, (and maybe himself a little too) he says lightly, "Relax. It's nothing. It's just dinner."

Suddenly, she's laughing.

Hell, would it kill her to be a little more supportive here? Or less? Or whatever?

"Sweetie, take a look around. Does this look like nothing?" she demands, sweeping her arm around at their surroundings. Shit. It looks like the contents of his closet have vomited all over his room. Stupid clothes covering every surface because he's trying to figure out what to wear to something he should have done in fall of sophomore year. You know, if he'd been smart.

And because she doesn't miss anything, she's zeroing in on his dresser top where a little gold bracelet with stars is lying, after having been tucked away for months, waiting for...shit, he doesn't even know what he's been waiting for. "And_ that _Noah, that definitely isn't nothing."

His jaw hangs open for a moment before he flushes heavily and sweeps it into his pocket. "It's a bracelet, Ma. Not a ring."

"Oh, I know." (Fuck his life, she is _absolutely_ mumbling _'not yet'_ under her breath.) "And Noah? Try the blue shirt."

"I think I can get dressed by myself," he says firmly to her retreating back as he picks up the grey shirt.

* * *

Of course, he's almost late because he has to go _back _upstairs and put on the blue shirt. And no, he doesn't purposely sneak out while his mother is busy in the kitchen. That's just a bonus.

* * *

Truth is, with three years of Glee behind him, he's seen Rachel in a lot of dresses and he probably remembers them all. (Well, yeah. Most of them were as short as shit and he fucking loves her l

egs.) But even with all that, he can still feel his gaze go all soft and unfocused when she opens the door and she's there in this dark blue fitted thing that looks like it must be made of silk or satin or something almost as smooth as her skin. Her hair is down and curling over her exposed shoulders, and her eyes are dark and smoky. And don't even get him started on the perfume.

He's trying to say something, but either he's turned stupid, or it's the _something_ squeezing so tight in his chest that he can't force anything out.

She seems to get it, or at any rate, she doesn't seem offended, just stares right back up at him, teeth worrying her plump, shiny bottom lip.

Without any input from his brain, his hand is reaching out to touch her and it settles on the curve of her waist, his thumb scraping gently along her hip. She inhales sharply and that's all it takes. He pulls her into him and her lips finds his and for a minute, he forgets everything but the taste of her and the feel of her under his hands. His mouth wanders and he really can't tell where the dress ends and she begins, only that her skin is warmer, heating up under him.

There's something..._wait_. The plan.

Right. Did the plan include pressing her up against the door and...

No?

_Stupid plan. _

He releases her reluctantly, shoving his hands into his pockets so they don't start wandering again. (That's kind of a problem when she's around.) "I like the dress."

"I can see that," she laughs a little breathlessly. "You look very nice as well, Noah. I like that color on you."

He can't help grinning. Of course she does. Miriam Puckerman may be crazy, but she knows her target. "Can I come in for a minute?"

They both step inside, but he can hear the television in the den. He needs to move this thing along before her dads come out and start making conversation, or pull out the baby pictures, or hug him again. (Also so he doesn't freak out and put it off again. _It's just a bracelet_.)

"This is for you," he says bluntly, pulling his hand out of his pocket and almost thrusting it into her hands. "You know. Like a Hanukkah present or a late birthday present." (Like, really late.)

She's looking down at her hands and one finger delicately prods the golden stars so that they catch the light. She's not saying anything, but he's okay with that because her smile is _huge_. Suddenly she flings herself against him and kisses him hard. He brings his arms up to catch her, but she's already torn herself away and is bouncing on her heels, eyes shining, talking a mile a minute.

"I _love_ it! Thank you so much Noah! I've always had this _connection_ with stars! Well, you know that of course. Metaphors _are_ important." She fumbles with the clasp and finally makes an impatient sound and demands, "Put it on!"

Sure, he could do something with that line, but for fuck's sake, they're trying to have a moment here.

He works the clasp carefully, trying to ignore the way his fingers seem to tingle when he brushes against the skin of her wrist (is she shivering?) Then he stands back and watches her admire it, turning her arm first one way, then another.

"It's perfect! You know, There's a jeweler in New York who creates pieces like this one and I've always admired them, but I've never..." she trails off and tilts her head at him questioningly.

"I got it in New York. Been holding on to it for a while." He clears his throat uncomfortably. "So, you ready for dinner?"

She hesitates like there are words trembling on the edge of her lips, but finally just nods and smiling at him says, "I'd like that." She grabs her coat and takes his hand, linking her fingers with his, and then tugs him out to the truck.

* * *

So apparently, going on dates is pretty cool. Or at least going on dates with Rachel is. They get this tiny table in the back and he steals bites of pasta off her plate and feeds her half his salad to make up for it and it takes them a couple of hours to eat because every time the baby-faced waiter (What is he? Sixteen? Why doesn't he go clean some pools?) comes near them, Puck keeps having to glare at him. The douche is staring at Rachel, who of course, is completely oblivious. Fucking teenagers.

They share a bottle of wine, which is _hilarious. _He keeps it to a glass because he's driving and she ends polishing off most of the rest of the bottle. She gets a little flushed and expansive as she describes an elaborate ranking system she's concocted for Broadway legends (she loses him somewhere between Bernadette Peters and Patti LuPone) and then he's _really_ confused because she's on to something about how he's destined to restore a house for her someday. Which he could totally do, no problem, but he's definitely drawing the line at rowing her around in some stupid boat during a rainstorm. What the fuck? Not and have her lose her voice or die of pneumonia or something. (But, if she really insists, he could compromise, like maybe on a nice day in Central Park...)

Honestly, _she's_ the one who's half-sprung, so why is _his_ head spinning?

He's watching her polish off her last bite of her fruit sorbet (and is inwardly groaning thinking about berries and the flavor of her mouth) when he jumps like hell because her toes are travelling a slow path up and down his calf and of course the sensation goes straight to his dick. The look she's giving him is fifty percent _sex_ and the rest of it is all _now_ and he's totally fighting the urge to pull her down with him and disappear beneath the tablecloth.

"Ready to go?" she asks huskily.

Does she even have to ask?

_"Check please!_" he calls out. Maybe too loudly, the waiter kid nearly wets himself scurrying over. Whatever. The punk is keeping his eyes to himself now, anyway.

Just because he can't help himself, and damn right, she can't keep her hands off him either, they end up making out in the parking lot, kissing slow and hot, fingers sliding under coats, seeking skin, pressed right up against his truck. (He's parked way in the back corner; it's like he's got an instinct for this kind of thing.) Eventually they both start getting cold and it's starting to snow, little stars drifting down and settling against her dark hair. He pulls her into him one more time, lips brushing her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids, before opening the truck door and boosting her into the passengers seat. (He gets a flash of panty as a reward, this gentlemanly stuff is the shit.)

He drives her to his house. No real reason; he's thinks he's cool with her dads now. He just wants her in his bed, one last time.

(Or maybe not the last time. Like if he doesn't screw it up.)

"Baby, we've got to be quiet," he whispers into her ear as he unlocks the back door and steps with her into the darkened kitchen. "Everyone's sleeping."

She giggles. "Stop then," and lightly slaps his hand away, because he's tickling her waist.

Crossing over to the cupboard he pulls out two glasses and fills them with water, but before he can turn back to hand her one, she's ducked under his arm and inserted herself between him and the counter, which obviously, he likes. She fists her little hands into his shirt, but she's looking down and he can't see her eyes, just the sweep of her lashes against her skin. Gorgeous.

"When did you get me that bracelet?" she asks. She voice is soft, but serious. There isn't a hint of the wine she's drunk, but suddenly he's feeling it, or something like it, a rush or a shot of adrenaline, anyway.

"A year ago. About twelve hours after the first time I'd seen you again." He knows that means something. Just like it means something that he's been carrying it around ever since.

"Do you love me?" she says, and it's so quiet that he can barely hear it. "I know I'm not supposed to ask like that, but I've never been a patient person. And this...this feels like love to me."

She move one hand to her wrist, brushing the bracelet gently. "Not just your beautiful gift and the thought you put into it, but _all_ of this. This date, and the time we've spent together and how you treat me, and how I feel when I'm with you."

_Fuck. Oh fuck._ He's not even breathing. Isn't that shit supposed to be involuntary?

"And maybe even the way you came to _me_ last year when you needed someone and from the first time you touched me, grabbed my elbow and called my name on a New York City street it felt just right. Like we were perfect together. And it scared me and I tried to ignore it or rationalize it away. I even thought it might burn itself out, but it hasn't and each time we walk away from each other it gets a little harder. I feel like I'm fifteen years old again, watching you walk away from me on the bleachers and wondering if I've made a terrible mistake."

His hands are locked on to her and he knows somewhere in his head that he's holding her too tight. But right now she's the only thing he can see, and if he loses her, he's going to fall, he knows he is.

"And I don't know if you want to take this into account when you make your decision, but I do love you. And I don't know when that truly started, but there it is. I can't explain it away Noah Puckerman; my heart is yours and I'm an amazing actress, but I can't pretend that it isn't any more. I don't even want to."

She's looking down at his chest shyly, smoothing his shirt under her hands and all the tension and doubt he's been carrying for however long shatters and disappears and for once the words are easy.

He tilts her chin up carefully. "No decision to make, Rach. Shit, I wouldn't have a clue how not to be in love with you."

There's more that he could tell her, more he _wants_ to tell her. Like how he's wanted her as long as he'd known her, and that even if he's an idiot who took years to figure it out, he's loved her for nearly as long as that. How he's going to make sure she never regrets this because apart from everything else, God would kick his ass. How he's fucking sure if it hadn't have been Eli, it would have been something else that brought him back to her.

But he doesn't get to say any of it because he's got no idea who started it, but they're kissing again and she's almost humming with pleasure and it's the best fucking feeling in the world.

Or maybe the second best.

He lifts her up onto the counter effortlessly, nudges her knees apart, and steps in between them. She's letting out these tiny keening noises that he has to muffle with his mouth and as his hand slides along her thigh, pushing her dress up, he allows his fingers to drift to where her thighs join. She arches into him, impatiently yanking on the buttons of his shirt, then skating her hands along the muscles of his back, his shoulder blades, spreading heat wherever she caresses.

"Baby, _Rachel_, love it when you touch me," he hisses and then groans "_yeah_," when her nails dig in a little, just enough to feel _good. _He pulls her closer, so that her ass is barely perched on the edge and she has to clutch at him and wrap her legs around him to keep her balance, and then he grinds into her until they're both panting.

They could totally do it. The kitchen is at the opposite end of the house from the bedrooms and he can probably keep Rachel quiet enough. He could unzip and then just pull her panties aside and sink up to his balls into her, and his cock feels like it's about to explode just thinking about it. Hell, he's even got a condom. He wants it quick and dirty and desperate, wants to see how high he can bring her up and how fast and how hard he can get her off. He wants to make her burn every time she sees that countertop from now until fucking _forever_.

"Noah, I'm just so..._god,_ I'm about to crawl out of my skin! Will you please just fuck me!"

_Oh fuck yes._ He can do that.

When she comes around him, shuddering and latching on the the skin of his shoulder to keep from crying out, he thrusts into her one last time and he's so relieved that he's finally told her that he loves her, because there's no way, _no way,_ he'd be able to stop himself from saying it to her now, from breathing it into her hair like he's doing _right now_, over and over and over again.

* * *

"I don't want to let you go," she whispers against his skin in the half-light of a mid-winter dawn.

He slides his hand in a slow sweep from her shoulder to her wrist where he rubs his thumb along the bracelet he gave her. "You don't have to," he says quietly.

* * *

Five months. Five months _sucks_.

Five months means lots of phone calls and webcams and text messages. It means trying to work around her theatre schedule and his classes and exams and going a little crazy trying to make things work.

It means a few intense stolen days whenever he can get away and she can spare some time. Twice in the Brooklyn studio she's subletting. He even manages to see her opening night, and her solo, all three seconds of it, and that night when he lays her back in her bed, he assures her that she stole the show and as far as he's concerned, she did. Once in Maryland when she unexpectedly gets three consecutive days off and is on a bus within three hours. And once in a hotel room in some nowhere town half-way in between. Didn't see anything of the sights, but he got pretty familiar with the view from the bed and with the number for room service.

It means another semester spending a lot quality time with his hand.

But six months being Rachel Berry's honest-to-god boyfriend is pretty awesome. Even if it is from two hundred miles away.

It's not like it's going to be forever. (The two hundred miles thing that is.) They both know this is going to end up with him moving to New York. They even talk about it a little, like when he's with her in Brooklyn in a apartment that he _legit_ doesn't fit in. No lie, there's a loft stretching over half of it where her futon mattress goes and after the third time or so that he smacks the shit out of his head on it, he starts talking about how she needs a bigger place and how when there's two of them paying rent, they can maybe afford something that has a bedroom with a door. She's holding an icepack to his head, but he doesn't miss her huge smile. so he guesses she's okay with that.

And then on opening night, when he's sitting next to her dads waiting for the curtain to open, they ask him straight out and instead of being pissed that he's planning on living with their daughter without the benefit of marriage, (Seriously, Ma. Give it a rest.) they're relieved as fuck that she's going to have someone to look out for her in the big, bad city. Truth be told, he'd never say anything to her because she's all about being able to take care of herself, but he wants that too. The show gets out pretty late and she doesn't always take a taxi home.

So yeah, it's an established thing, but he thinks he can still surprise her, which is why he's leaning up against the brick wall of the theatre on a May afternoon. It's not a performance night, but she's in rehearsal and he's not sure when she's getting out. He finally spots her exiting the stage door, going through her bag while chatting with someone he vaguely recognizes from the chorus and he's so focused on her and the bounce in her step and the way the light shines on her hair, that he almost lets her walk by him again until gets his shit together and calls her name.

She whirls, bring up a hand to her mouth (_dramatic_, he's missed it) and then launches herself at him and wraps her arms around him just like she did the first time he saw her on a New York City street.

"Noah! You're a week early!" She pulls back a little and looks at him all concerned. "What about your exams?"

He snorts and pulls her right back where she should be. "Took 'em early. Finished the last one about four hours ago." He kisses her hard and her arms come up to wrap around his neck and they both ignore the laughing and cheering from the other performers all filing out behind her.

"You gonna to take me home?" he asks finally, huskily, into her ear.

"Absolutely," she beams and takes his arm in hers.

And this time, he's not leaving.

* * *

_End_


End file.
